


Heart of Stone, Life of Fire

by SoftlyandSwiftly



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Dragons, M/M, Violence, War, slightly influenced by game of thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 96,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftlyandSwiftly/pseuds/SoftlyandSwiftly
Summary: A war with the city of Banshia and its conquering King threatens all of the Cities on the continent of Kiza. Young Zayn Malik finds himself hopelessly entangled in the web of the war, his future rewritten in the span of a morning as allies and enemies shift. Traded for the promise of an ally, Zayn finds himself among the warrior tribes of the Nakizi people, where he must carve out his own place and take his fate into his own hands.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takemeorleaveme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takemeorleaveme/gifts).



> PLEASE READ: Okay, so in honor of Just Let Me Know reaching 1000 kudos, I've decided to go ahead and publish a new fic, but the process will be a bit different this time. This fic is currently unfinished, and I'm hoping that by posting it I'll gain motivation to finish it quickly. I make no promises though, other than to swear that I won't abandon it completely. 
> 
> I promised a dragon fic to takemeorleaveme over a year ago (whoops) and this is the end result of that promise. It took me forever to settle on this plot, so expect some changes as I finish it. 
> 
> Some things before you begin reading:  
> -this is slightly influenced by Game of Thrones, so expect some violence  
> -all warnings will be posted on the individual chapters so please, PLEASE read them beforehand  
> -all of the places and strange words are made up  
> -in fact the whole Nakizi language is made up (based off of a very, very slight understanding of linguistics)  
> -a glossary will be at the end of each chapter with definitions and translations for the Nakizi language and any other words, people, or places I feel you should know  
> -the dragons are based off of fanart, and I'm currently trying to find a way to contact the person who drew it  
> -this is completely AU, which is not something I've done before, so be gentle with me
> 
> I believe that is it, so please enjoy reading!

People swarm over the marketplace, buzzing like the flies do in the summer. The sound is out of place now that the high season has at last faded into fall, but the sight recalls Zayn’s early memories of the fall marketplace around the days of harvest. Wooden stalls crowd every available street and corridor, vendors yelling their wares into the chilly air as people bustle from stand to stand, and the streets are a riot of bright colors, heads wrapped in scarves and long-sleeved tunics brought out to fight the first hints of winter in the air.

Zayn stands beside a stall just outside the castle courtyard, positioned optimally on the high street where already people gather in anticipation of the day’s procession. The growing crowds make Zayn restless, nerves dancing, and the once-anticipation in his stomach is gradually turning sour.

He sees, when he looks closer, the strain on people’s faces. Their bright clothes fray at the seams, and their eyes are hard. Zayn remembers song, cheer, and dance around the fall harvest; he recalls easily ale flowing from the established taverns and the smell of fresh baked goods, but he does not see the same sights today. The air is subdued, and the haste with which people shove up to stalls speaks of desperation.

It is the first time Zayn has been to the marketplace since the war with Banshia began, and Zayn begins to see why his father had banned his children from leaving the castle grounds. Desperation and unease make people unpredictable.

His gut twists in something like shame, and Zayn seeks out the familiar braid of his sister’s dark hair, winding halfway down her back and moving as she speaks animatedly with the vendor of a scarf stall. Waliyha notices none of the underlying edge in the city, and Zayn thinks that he was foolish to allow her to talk him into sneaking away. They should not have stolen servants’ clothing and dodged the royal guards standing along the high street, especially today of all days.

Today the Nakizi come again.

A trumpet breaks across the air, and Zayn’s head snaps up towards the Eastern gates. Silence trails in the wake of the announcement as the crowd shifts on their feet, nervous or anticipatory or both. They can see nothing from the center of Hal, where the castle resides, but still, everyone looks along the cleared high street, where the Nakizi procession will ride in for the first time in nearly six winters.

Zayn can barely remember the Nakizi people, nomadic tribes who trade with the Cities, but he does recall the way the citizens of Hal once rejoiced at their coming. The Nakizi brought with them tales of far-off places, spices, weapons, and foods that the citizens of Hal would find nowhere else.

Hal, and the other Cities, had maintained nearly a century of trade agreements with the Nakizi tribes, the Nakin, until King Leiv had overthrown his brother-in-law, and Banshia had claimed the city of Sandhill as its own. The war was unexpected, and in the scramble, King Yaser, and the other Kings, had closed their gates to the nomadic tribes.

Zayn understands why the Nakizi were banned – a fighting culture which raises warriors renowned across the continent of Kiza, the Nakin have no true loyalties or bindings to the Cities – but he thinks the swift severance of their relationship was a mistake. The tensions of the war only made the already tenuous relationship more unstable, and the once favorable opinions of the Nakizi have shifted. Six winters of war ravaging the once-stable continent, and everything teeters at a precarious balance.

If King Yaser were not so desperate, Zayn knows he would never allow the Nakizi to enter Hal again. But the King is desperate; all of the Cities are. Karva fell to Banshia’s might in the middle of summer, and now all that separates the remaining Cities from King Leiv is the Great Forest.

And the Nakizi, perhaps, if a treaty can be brokered between this Nakin and Hal.

The Nakin King Yaser has sought out enters Hal today, and the people have gathered to witness it. But as Zayn looks from face to face, he understands what his father did not quite say. Some of the people are not happy that the Nakizi have returned. Unease rumbles through the crowd as they press to the marked pathway, and the guards scattered along the way suddenly seem inadequate.

Zayn knows, in a sudden terrible way, that he and his sister should not be here.

“Wali,” he grasps suddenly at his sister’s arm where she reaches to study yet another scarf. Her wide, brown eyes blink at him in surprise, but Zayn ignores it. “Wali, we need to go.”

A guard glances at them when Waliyha shakes Zayn’s hand off, and Zayn ducks his head with his heart hammering in his ears. He does not wish to be discovered now, not when the Nakizi are already in the city. His father’s anger will be brutal.

“Zayn, knock it off,” Wali hisses, all young arrogance. She is only thirteen winter’s old, Zayn remembers; she does not understand much. She certainly does not have the same concerns – marriage, power, war – on her mind that Zayn does. “We cannot go. The Nakizi have not even passed yet. I thought you wished to see them.”

He had, is the worst part. Zayn’s fascination with the Nakizi, and this Nakin in particular, carried over from childhood tales, and he has read nearly every tale he could find on them. But reading about a warrior tribe is one thing; facing them when they have not yet allied themselves is dangerous.

Zayn swears he will apologize to his mother and father as soon as he and Wali are again ensconced in the castle. “I’ve changed my mind,” he states, aiming for calm and authoritative.

Waliyha stares at him, aghast. “Not you too! You sound like Doni’s husband!”

Zayn’s nose wrinkles in distaste before he can control it. His eldest sister’s husband is a rather pasty man from Albin, and his home city’s luxurious tastes have made him soft. Zayn has led an easy life, but he is not weak. “He’s an idiot,” Zayn snaps. “This isn’t the same, Wali! We have to –”

“Do what you like,” Waliyha turns from him with a wave of her hand, and Zayn hates in that moment that he and she are so similar. Her slight frame cuts away from the stalls and towards the crowd lining the street. Zayn follows because he must; if he loses sight of her, he will never find her again. “I’m staying here until I see the Nakin,” Wali reiterates when she realizes he follows her. “I wish to see this unbeatable Nalé.”

Zayn’s gut twists at the reminder. Rumors circle the Nakin aez Draza, more than usual. Always renowned for their namesake, the Nakin is now said to be led by a young Nalé, the youngest in decades, a man who kills any challenger and slaughters the Banshians when he encounters them. One traveler told Zayn with glee that the Nalé’s arms are so decorated in killing bands, they appear black. At the time, Zayn had felt awe; now he feels sick.

“He is dangerous,” Zayn argues, without thought. People glance curiously at him, and Zayn hides his face by tilting his chin down. He grabs Waliyha’s wrist, but does not try to stop her. They do not need the guards’ attention now. “The Nakizi all are! Wali –”

“Besides,” she continues, ignoring Zayn almost entirely as she shoves closer to the front of the crowd lining the street, “aren’t you curious about the –”

“Dragon!”

The shout rends the air, loud and brutal, the voice cracking in fear. Zayn’s heart stops, and he watches his sister’s face pale. Everyone comes to a complete still, frozen by the terror in the man’s voice. No one should sound so afraid within Hal’s walls. No one.

The silence after the man’s shout lasts for only an instant, and then suddenly the crowd erupts. People scream, and almost as one, arms are lifted to point at the air.

Zayn turns his gaze up with a heavy heart, and the sight of a large shadow in the air knocks him breathless. A dragon. The shape is unmistakable, especially as it grows clearer, wide wings and a thick body, and Zayn cannot even imagine the beast’s true size.

He recalls, quite suddenly, his tutor’s dismissive words on dragons. ‘ _They are a dying species,’ the old man brushes Zayn’s question aside, ‘Less and less hatch each year, and only one Nakin can raise them into adulthood. Dragons are no threat, not any longer.’_

Zayn thought the man a fool then, but he knows him one now. A dragon will always be a threat, and it does not matter if only one Nakin can still raise the animals. It matters that the Nakin which retains that power is this one, the Nakin aez Draza, the Dragon Tribe.

And they have brought a dragon with them.

Even with the dragon’s shape taking clearer form before him as it flies closer to the castle, Zayn cannot believe it. They have traded with the Dragon Tribe for nearly a century, and they have never dared bring a dragon into the city. It is forbidden, and the Nakizi have always respected this rule.

Clearly, they no longer do.

All at once, the tense and frozen silence which held the crowd snaps. Screams echo loudly from every direction, and hands shove at Zayn mercilessly. He stumbles, shocked and unbalanced, and in between one blink and the next, Wali disappears.

“Wali!” His cry is lost under the torrent of noise as people shove and heave, not even moving in a uniform direction. Their panic overwhelms them, and each person seeks out shelter only for himself. Guards shove them away from the cleared street out of habit, Zayn thinks, but the people shove back. Chaos descends.

The crowd swallows Zayn, and he has to throw his elbows out to keep from being trampled. He honestly cannot tell if he still shouts for his sister. The flood of noise washes out everything except for the drum of his heartbeat against the inside of his chest, and Zayn cannot breathe. He has seen riots before, when the grain runs short towards the end of winter, or the heat drives people to madness, but he has never experienced one. It feels like drowning.

Two new noises suddenly explode over the rest, and Zayn snaps his head up automatically. The dragon’s wings thunder as it flaps to hover just over the crowd, and the wind flattens Zayn’s hair to his head. He gapes, awestruck, and he barely hears a smaller thunder echo over the streets. It takes him a moment to place it, but then he recognizes the sound of horses’ hooves pounding the brick street.

The Nakizi are coming to the castle, where their dragon already waits in the air.

Zayn remains frozen, even as the crowd swarms around him still, but it is thinning out. People have found their way inside, or behind what wooden stalls have not been destroyed. The street is littered in all manner of things, and Zayn catches a flash of a long braid of dark hair. His gaze anchors to it, and he sees his sister.

“Waliyha!” he yells, heedless of exposing them now. The guards could only help them at this point. She does not turn though, his sister; instead, she freezes in place, a bubble of empty air around her.

Zayn shoves toward her without thought. He must get to her before she is trampled. Waliyha is too slight to shove back, and it is a miracle that she has not been hurt already. He breaks through to the empty space surrounding his sister, uncomprehending of why she stands alone, and reaches for her. He takes his first true breath when her terrified eyes look back at him.

“Zayn!” she yelps.

A loud clap of thunder and the ground moves beneath them. Zayn stumbles and cannot help glancing over Waliyha’s shoulder toward the source of the noise. What he sees stops his heart entirely.

Standing proudly before him on four legs is the dragon, brilliant red in color with smoke curling out of its nostrils as it looks down its long snout at Zayn’s sister. Its size is incomprehensible, twice as large as a horse, but the way it moves is sinuous as a snake. Two horns curl away from its broad forehead, and ridges of bone shadow its eyes. Teeth poke out from its mouth, sharp and brilliant white, and sun glances off its scales as it moves.

A hush has fallen over the crowd, and it takes a moment for Zayn to realize that the sound of hoof beats has stopped as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Nakizi astride horses just behind the beast. Surprise colors their faces.

_The dragon is not meant to be here_.

The thought is chilling, perhaps even moreso than the idea that the Nakizi would bring a dragon with them. At least a dragon brought would be under someone’s control. This beast is acting on its own.

Terror takes over Zayn’s body, ice in his veins as he stares at the impossibly large animal, so much bigger than he’d ever imagined. It stands in front of his sister, taking up the entire span of the empty space left for the Nakizi procession, almost the entire span of the road itself. Silence rings from the crowd, most of which is frozen in place much like Zayn himself.

The dragon moves though. It slithers forward, long neck dipping gracefully as its strangely human eyes, brought into sudden relief, blink unerringly at Waliyha where she trembles like leaves on a branch before the beast.

It sniffs at her, like a predator, and Zayn tenses. Before he can anything, a voice explodes from behind the dragon. “Fraeyn!”

The voice startles Zayn, his sister, and the beast all at once. It whips its head back, like it knows the strange voice yelling a foreign word, but it does not move.

The Nakizi around it shift, and then a rider is moving forward from among their ranks, approaching the dragon with a wary, serious expression. His wavy hair is pulled back, torso bare despite the fall chill, and he rides his horse with a sure seat. Zayn finds his eyes drawn to the man’s face, his shoulders, the arch of his neck. There is something there, in the firm lines of his body, something powerful.

He is the Nalé, the leader of this Nakin; Zayn knows it with an unshakable certainty. He is the young leader the rumors speak of. Black bands decorate his arms thickly, and Zayn swallows hard against a dry throat. He and his sister face a dragon and a murderous Nakizi leader; Zayn has never felt such fear.

When the man dismounts his horse, the muscles in his back bunch and release with the ease of familiarity, every move smooth and well-practiced. The man studies the dragon for a moment, and Zayn studies him. His skin is copper-tan from the sun, and scars arch over his skin. He stands the way the oldest knights do, always ready to fight. He is a warrior, through and through, a leader, and not someone to be trifled with.

The man takes one step forward, and the dragon huffs, calling Zayn’s attention back like the snap of his tutor’s fingers. The dragon advances closer to Waliyha and Zayn.

“Fraeyn,” the man calls again as he takes further careful steps forward, deep voice booming in the clipped tone of the Nakizi. “Jak!”

The dragon eyes him for a moment, strangely silent. If it weren’t for the smoke streaming from its nose still, Zayn would think it a statue, beautifully carved from a monumental canyon gem. The man takes another cautious step forward, both hands raised as he maintains eye contact, but the beast turns its head, apparently bored with the man.

It takes one lumbering step forward, towards Waliyha, and she screams. The monster rears back, startled by the noise, and everything around Zayn narrows.

He thinks he can hear the Nalé calling out that word, jak, again, but he is focused on his sister, her young face twisted up in terror as the beast’s long neck stretches up. The muscles in its shoulders tense, like it means to lunge, and Zayn’s already moving. He throws himself in front of his sister, ungracefully pushing his body in front of her as a last, desperate barricade between her and danger, and his mind is blank of everything except for an image of Waliyha as he first saw her, a too small and too calm baby, bundled up in a too soft blanket. But that is how he has always thought of his younger sister, too much of everything, certainly owning too much of his heart, even if she does not know it.

He says nothing as he jumps in front of her. One of his hands goes back, shoving Waliyha further away, and the other comes up in front of his face, as though it can protect him from the long teeth he knows will be in that snapping mouth.

His eyes close of their own volition, and Zayn waits for the sickening pain of sharp teeth tearing his flesh, certain of his impending death.

It does not come.

Warm air hits his open palm and shocks him into opening his eyes. The sun is blinding, dancing off of the red scales which dominate his view. His spread fingers give him a broken up image of the dragon’s face, and Zayn does not understand. He does not understand how he is not dead. The image realigns itself, and Zayn’s breath leaves him in a harsh gasp.

The dragon stopped.

The silence from before feels like nothing compared to the silence of now. Zayn can hear the breath wheezing in and out of his heaving chest, can hear the exhalations of the beast before him and recognizes all at once that the warmth he feels on his palm is its breath.

 He is alive, and the dragon is alive, and they stand almost touching. An impossibility frozen in an instant, and Zayn nearly drowns in it until he moves, slowly and without thought.

His hand lowers so that he can more clearly see the face of the monster that he thought would kill him. The dragon blinks calmly back at him, eyes a fierce gold color that Zayn swears burns and flickers like fire. He sees intelligence behind those eyes and curiosity, as though he surprised the beast. Zayn could understand that; he surprised himself as well.

The dragon breathes out deeply, and air tickles Zayn’s palm. Its nose is barely separated from his skin, long snout almost elegant as it fades into the sharp bone structure of its head. Zayn thinks, all at once, that this dragon is beautiful.

As though it can hear his thoughts, the dragon tilts its head, eyes never leaving Zayn’s. It looks like it is waiting for something, and Zayn swallows against his dry mouth, trying to find his voice, though he knows not what he should say. He only feels that he should speak.

When he is certain that he can speak without his voice cracking, Zayn tries, “Fraeyn.” The word trips off his tongue awkwardly, unfamiliar as he tries to mimic the first word that the Nalé had shouted. He has no idea what it means, but it is clearly the right thing to say, as the dragon immediately tilts its head down and presses forward into his outstretched palm.

Gasps echo out from around them, and Zayn’s sure his own is among them. The dragon is warm, so warm and impossibly smooth, underneath his hand. The scales almost seem to glow as the dragon’s eyes close, and it presses forward a bit harder, knocking Zayn back a step for the sheer strength of so large a beast. Zayn’s fingers itch to twitch, but he does not wish to startle it. He does not imagine that would end well.

They stay like that for a moment, and the dragon watches him, waiting. Heart still pounding, Zayn slowly moves his hand up and then back down, as though he were petting a horse’s flank. More smoke pours from the nostrils on either side of his hand, twirling up and around Zayn’s arm, and he shivers from the contrast between the heat of the dragon and the chill of the air.

The dragon blinks open eyes which fell closed underneath his petting, and Zayn thinks ridiculously that if animals could smile, this dragon would be doing so right now.

“Fraeyn.” The voice this time is not his own, and Zayn and the beast turn as one to see the man from before edging up to them. Zayn expects the man’s eyes to be on the dragon, but he finds the man gazing at him instead.

He flinches at the gaze, hand dropping all at once, and the dragon’s head whips back around. It snorts at him, smoke thick, like it is irritated, and Zayn gulps. He raises his hand again, hoping the tremble in his fingers is not perceptible to any but him. The dragon eases forward into his hand once more.

The man watches it all from a distance, his large arms folded over his wide chest, and he looks every length the warrior leader he is. Zayn shudders to think about what this man will do to him for touching the dragon. It is not Zayn’s right to do so; he is not of the Nakizi, not kin of the Nalé of dragons, not one of this Nakin.

The man just observes Zayn and the dragon though, making no move and no sound.

“Prince Zayn?”

 Zayn’s shoulders tense at his title, and the Nakizi man’s eyes widen in recognition.

Zayn refuses to look away from where he has his attention split between the dragon and the Nakizi man. “Yes?” he asks the voice which spoke his title.

A guard inches just into his view, before the remaining line of the crowd from earlier. Zayn is surprised, and then oddly proud, that all of his people did not flee at the sight of the beast. His people are perhaps braver than he thought.

“Prince Zayn, I – Is there something...” the guard trails off uncertainly, his spear clutched firmly in his hands as though he would attempt to fight the dragon if that is what Zayn so commanded.

It is an option, Zayn knows. The dragon flew directly for the castle, as though attacking, and Hal could not be blamed for responding. Yet Zayn recalls the shock on the Nakizi’s faces, the way the Nalé had spoken to the dragon, as though trying to stop it. The Nakizi had clearly raced after the dragon, which had flown over and into the city. Zayn remembers thinking that the dragon acted on its own and watching it now, he believes that.

He cannot order the guards to attack first, but beyond that, Zayn does not actually wish the dragon harm. Studying the complacent beast before him, Zayn is again filled with childish wonder at the existence of such an animal and awe that it allows his touch. A connection grows between them the longer Zayn stands skin to scale with it, tugging at Zayn’s chest relentlessly. He does not understand it, but he does not fight it either.

The guard watches him, waiting for an order.

“Fetch my father,” Zayn decides, speaking calmly and clearly. “He speaks Nakizi, and he will want to know what is happening.”

The soldier salutes and then disappears.

The world outside of the dragon swims into focus, and Zayn becomes aware all at once of every person still lingering.

Zayn takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. A smile almost quirks his lips when he swears the dragon before him does the same. It must be a trick of his mind though, understandable considering he is palm to snout with a dragon for the foreseeable future, as clearly the dragon does not wish to stop touching him.

If he is honest, he does not wish to stop touching it either. The thought is a dangerous one, so Zayn turns his mind to other concerns, such as the lingering crowd and the procession of Nakizi.

Words find their way to Zayn’s tongue with the ease of a lifetime of practice. “If you are a citizen of Hal, please return to your homes,” Zayn calls out, praying that his voice will not startle the dragon. It apparently does not, the beast’s eyes closing once more, the weight of it against his palm almost increasing. Zayn struggles to keep his arm upright and straight, to look like the prince that he is. “Return to your homes,” he repeats, stronger.

One by one the people begin to disperse, urged along by guards who once again line the street. He sees the way the people’s eyes remain on him though, sees the way they bend their heads to whisper. His mind spins with all the implications of what has happened and is happening here. He thinks dismally of the treaty his father had hoped to strike with the Nakizi, the one Zayn has now undoubtedly changed.

He has touched a dragon of the fearsome Nakin, and the Nalé leader himself has witnessed it. Such a transgression certainly has a fierce punishment, one which Zayn’s father might have to allow. Zayn nearly shudders at all the implications, but he does not move.

“Zayn?” Wali’s voice is quiet and timid, and Zayn blinks, because he had forgotten that she was behind him. He hears her careful footsteps now though.

 “Wali,” he breathes out, relieved that she has not been hurt. “Sister, go to the castle.”

“But you’re –”

“Guards,” Zayn calls. Immediately one steps into his line of sight. “Please escort my sister back to the castle. Leave her with no one but my mother.” The guard nods and carefully moves around Zayn and the dragon to Waliyha, giving the dragon in particular a wide berth.

Zayn cannot see the guard guide his sister, but he does hear her quiet but genuine, “I’m sorry, Z” as their footsteps fade.

He sighs.

Moments pass and the street clears of all but Zayn and the Nakizi, the citizens finally listening to their crown prince, no doubt with the help of guards. The Nakizi stand behind the dragon, the entire procession of them that entered the city today motionless now that they have gathered loosely around. The quiet of the city is foreign, and Zayn wishes desperately he could have returned with his sister to the castle, to bury himself in his bed and attempt to forget this entire day. Impossible, of course; he will never forget this.

“Fraeyn.” Zayn startles at the man’s voice again, but he watches as the dragon turns its head and stares. It keeps its scales in contact with Zayn’s hand as though it requires his touch. The man takes more careful steps towards them, hands down by his sides. On anyone else it would be a very nonthreatening posture, but this man bleeds his warrior heritage.

A string of Nakizi flows from his mouth, much too fast for Zayn to separate into words, not that he would understand much anyways. Nakizi is an ancient tongue, not written down by any hand. He struggles to learn a solely oral language, and often complained more than studied when his tutors attempted to school him. He rather regrets that now though, watching this man speak to the dragon.

The dragon stares at the man but does not move, and Zayn expects frustration to bleed over the man’s face.

He does not expect, however, for the man to laugh, nor does Zayn expect it to transform his face from intimidating to joyful. He looks young as he throws back his head and laughs, and Zayn is stunned to realize that this man cannot be much older than Zayn is himself. When the man focuses back on them, he stares for a moment at Zayn, unnerving the young prince, before he looks skyward.

“Ossium!” His shout echoes through the stone buildings and streets. The dragon before Zayn shifts quite suddenly, moving in a step so quick that Zayn’s eyes cannot follow it. With a grace he would never have expected from such a large creature, Zayn finds himself standing beside the dragon instead of before it, its head still bowed so that Zayn’s hand can now rest just below its eye. If the dragon were not so large, they would be shoulder to shoulder under the watchful gaze of the Nalé.

The man does not appear worried that the dragon has turned to face off against him. He shakes his head, a small smile still on his lips, and he crosses his arms again. Zayn does not understand what happened, what the word the man had called meant, why the dragon has turned, but then he hears the thunder of before and looks up.

A dark shadow blocks out the sun, more massive even than the dragon beside him, and Zayn fights not to run as this new beast lands. His teeth click together with the force of so much weight hitting the street, and he tries to take in the span of the creature. It takes a moment, for its wingspan is massive, touching buildings to each side with ease before it folds its wings gracefully and bows its head to the Nakizi man.

_Another dragon in Hal_ , Zayn thinks dizzily, _called out of the sky._ He wonders if the dragons always circle when the Nakizi go somewhere they cannot. He wonders how many more wait to be called down, and he shudders.

The new dragon is larger and sturdier than the one beside Zayn. It is built almost like the man beside it with thick muscle and a steadiness that translates through its sure gaze. Zayn swears it evaluates the situation for itself, like a human. The grey color of it reminds him strongly of the canyons of Kiza where this Nakin calls home. A horn curves back from the dragon’s snout. The Nalé, for Zayn is still sure that is who this man is, stands in front of the beast calmly as it wraps its neck almost protectively around him.

They appear almost as one creature, instead of two.

The man speaks once more, and Zayn only catches the two words, Fraeyn and Ossium, before the new beast steps gracefully forward.

The dragon beside Zayn hisses, its neck slithering further out to curve around Zayn in an odd imitation of the way the other dragon had done with the Nakizi man. The man laughs again, though his own dragon hisses.

The two dragons face off, the Nakizi man and Zayn trapped between them like they are in some battle of ancient times, some story that Zayn’s mother read to him as a child. He feels achingly small among such beasts, fragile in comparison even to the other man. His slim build and fine features are no much for any Nakizi fighter, even an adolescent one, and this man _must_ be the Nalé, the young leader of whom the rumors spoke.

A sudden slashing sound hisses by Zayn’s ear, and he ducks out of instinct, barely catching sight of the retreating grey tail that must have caused the noise. His dragon – no, not his dragon but the dragon which stands by him – hisses sharply, and Zayn knows that it was struck by that tail, though its scales show no mark of course. Its own tail shoots forward, but the older dragon blocks it with ease. They do this a few more times before settling into challenging stares once more, and Zayn does not understand what is happening until he sees the smile growing on the other man’s face.

The dragons are playing.

Or well, as near to it as can be. They still hiss, but Zayn can hear now that it sounds like the growls of playing puppies. He watches in awe as the dragons continue the game, the larger dragon landing more hits than the one beside Zayn.

It takes him far too long to realize that the game serves an actual purpose. The grey dragon’s hits are not without strategy, for each lures the red dragon further and further from Zayn. The red dragon is far too caught up in playing to realize this though, and Zayn gapes at both beasts. The intelligence he thought he saw in the dragons’ eyes is undeniable now. Perhaps even more extensive than he realized, if the grey dragon is following orders from the Nakizi man, who watches the dragons easily.

Before long, a space nearly as wide as Zayn is tall opens up between the red dragon and Zayn himself. Despite a curious desire to follow the red dragon, Zayn stays put. He is not altogether surprised then when the grey dragon lunges quite suddenly, taking the red dragon down once it is far enough from Zayn. He still has to duck the swipe of a tail, nearly shouting as he scrambles away from the flailing animals. More smoke issues from the slithering limbs, and then all at once they separate. The blue-grey dragon faces off with the red once more, and then with a fierce snap, spreads its wings and catapults itself in the air. The red dragon follows immediately.

Two waves of air nearly knock Zayn from his feet as he gapes up at the sky. His clothes press tight to his body as Zayn brings a hand up to shade his eyes from the sun, searching the sky. The dragons turn to smears of vivid color and then black spots between blinks before disappearing altogether. The speed of them, Zayn cannot even comprehend. A strange ache fills Zayn’s chest, to watch the red dragon disappear without a backward glance.

A hand on his shoulder startles Zayn completely, and he steps back instinctively. The Nakizi man stands before him, eyes intent on his face as he speaks, words rolling off his tongue.

Zayn gapes at him, head spinning, blood pounding in his ears. He understands nothing of what the man is saying, can feel words piling up on his own tongue because he has so many questions. But he is silent.

“Prince?” the Nakizi man finally asks, his voice rough with the cadence of his mother tongue over a different language.

“Yes,” Zayn replies, his own voice light and airy in comparison. He flinches at it, hates how weak he has probably come off as. He straightens his shoulders automatically, eyes flitting around the group of Nakizi assembled behind their leader. The rest still sit astride their horses, eyeing the two men with interest, though Zayn notices that nearly all rest a hand on the swords strapped to their belts. It makes his throat go dry again. “Yes, I am Prince Zayn,” he forces himself to say. He will not appear weak before these men.

The Nakizi before him tilts his head, and Zayn notices that his eyes are a shade of brown that reminds Zayn of almonds and the dark ale he was not allowed to touch until he had hit his fifteenth winter. The man’s face does not look so stern as it had when Zayn had first seen it, but neither does it look so relaxed as it had watching the dragons play. The Nakizi is clearly and unabashedly studying Zayn, from head to foot and back again, taking his measure.

Zayn struggles not to shrink nor straighten further under the gaze, acting as though it does not bother him.

Another string of words leaves the Nakizi man’s mouth, said quietly this time as though he knows that Zayn cannot understand. The nearest Nakizi clearly hears though, his own neck straightening as his gaze goes from distantly interested to sharp as a sword’s.

"Nalé,” he rasps, confirming what Zayn thought all along about the man’s identity. The other man speaks too quickly after for Zayn to comprehend more than just the sound of the sharp and quick language, but Zayn understands the tone. The man is unhappy with whatever his Nalé has said.

“Jak, vulkeyun,” the man before Zayn commands, raising his hand and gesturing the other man quiet without once removing his eyes from Zayn. Zayn feels the gaze like a weight now, and he cannot decipher what it means. It is not threatening, nor evaluating any longer. It is almost – Zayn feels himself flush as the man reaches one large hand forward and traces a single finger just under Zayn’s eye. “Anshiayn.”

Zayn opens his mouth, not even sure what might come tumbling out of it, when another voice cracks across the distance.

"Nalé Liam, sashuin. Nakizi uz sashuin un Hal.”  

His father’s voice is instantly recognizable, and Zayn takes a step back, aware all at once of his proximity to the Nalé. Yaser approaches, dark eyes calculating as he carefully steps in front of his son. An entire squadron of guards clanks into formation just behind them both, clearly focused on protecting their current and future kings. Zayn almost winces at the blatant challenge.

“Sashuin King Yaser,” the man – Liam, Yaser called him – greets back, nodding his head in the sign of respect that the Nakizi gift outsiders. “Gunsuim.”

Yaser rattles off another sentence in Nakizi that flows over Zayn as nothing more than sound, to which Liam nods, and then Yaser turns to Zayn with a very forced smile. “Son, return to the castle. Your mother is waiting for you.”

Zayn bows his head in deference, though he wishes suddenly to hide like a child again. He can only imagine what his mother will say, knowing immediately that Wali has probably told her everything. He turns to go, almost relieved, but halts when the almost familiar voice of the Nalé stops him.

“Zayn.” His name sounds foreign on the man’s tongue, but Zayn knows it is his without doubt. He eyes the strange man with interest. Once Liam meets his eyes again, he speaks, “Unte nubemiem.”

Yaser’s eyes widen, and Zayn looks at his father in confusion. When he receives no clue about how to proceed, he simply repeats the words back, hoping he will not offend. “Unte nubemiem, Nalé Liam.”

The Nakizi man nods his head, and Zayn takes it for the dismissal he knows it is.

He walks steadily back towards the gate, ignoring the fact that a guard falls into step with him, like he needs protecting, or more likely, watching over. He keeps his back straight, feeling the presence of several eyes between his shoulder blades. His hands flex at his sides, the warmth of red scales not yet forgotten, and the weight of unfamiliar brown eyes on his shoulders.

* * *

 

“Your father wishes to see you in the Council room.”

Zayn glances up from where he’s perched on his window seat to see his mother standing serenely in the doorway. It’s such a contrast to the way she stormed out of this very room, his sitting room, earlier that he nearly laughs.

Coming back to the castle had gone just as he expected. Zayn doesn’t think he can recall another time his mother had chastised him so harshly, and he knows it was because of the danger he had allowed Waliyha to be in, rather than the possible political consequences that anyone else, Zayn included, would worry over. Lady Trisha Malik though is known all across Kiza for putting her family above all else.

“In the Council room?” Zayn repeats, gut twisting. His father only meets in that room for business relating to the safety of Hal and its provinces. It is undoubtedly where his father and the Nakizi gathered earlier today, not that Zayn was allowed anywhere near them. He has been confined to his rooms since his return this morning, and only the passage of sun lets him know how much time has passed.

His mother nods, face curiously blank, and it sets Zayn further on edge.

“Official business, then?”

She says nothing, but Zayn catches the flicker of emotion in her eye. Whatever his father’s decided, his mother is aware of it, and does not agree, judging by her stony exterior. It prods at Zayn’s curiosity, for it is not often his parents disagree on anything, let alone their own children.

He unfolds himself from the ledge of the window and closes the glass pane behind him. The cooling air had soothed him as the sun had set, and he’d been able to watch the procession of Nakizi leave that evening, making the long walk through the wide courtyard of the castle to their horses.

They were off to their camp just outside of the city because they refused to stay overnight in any city at all. Seeing the sheer size of their dragons, Zayn thinks he better understands that preference. His eyes had focused immediately on the broad back of the Nalé, distinguishable somehow. Zayn can almost see the man’s face now, if he concentrates, and he’s not sure what it is about the man that stays with him, but something does. Perhaps the way he had carried himself, so assured even as he approached the dragon; it is a confidence Zayn aches for in himself, especially in this moment.

Smoothing his hands down his fine tunic, a contrast to the one than he wore to the marketplace this morning, Zayn steps towards his mother demurely. Only this morning – though Zayn feels it was days, perhaps even longer – Zayn had been largely concerned with a guard spotting him and his sister. If they had, then perhaps he would not have this knot of confusion tangled in his stomach.

But if they had, Zayn would never have touched a dragon either. He wonders what it says about him, as a prince, as a man, that he is not certain he would take it back, if he could.

Thoughts of the red dragon had occupied his mind throughout the afternoon, even when he should have been wondering about the discussion that had been taking place in his father’s Council room. Zayn could not help his fascination though. It burned through him to a degree he had not felt since he had been very young, and his palm itched to touch the smooth scales of the dragon once more. An impossible thought, and yet one that Zayn entertained all afternoon, eyes on the very blue sky, though he knew that the dragons would not return, not today, not to Hal again.

Following his mother through the quiet corridors and voicing none of these thoughts, Zayn is almost grateful that the halls are empty. News of his encounter with the dragon, strange as it was like a myth from ancient times, had spread fast within the castle, and by the time Zayn had returned with his guard, many of the servants had stopped and stared as he walked toward his mother’s rooms. Usually accustomed to stares, these were different. It is one thing to be stared at for something out of one’s control, like one’s supposed beauty, but quite another thing to be stared at for something one has done, however accidental it was. The stares unnerved him, though Zayn cannot blame the others.

Zayn understands their curiosity; he truly does, but he has no answers for them. He does not know why the dragon did not attack him. The entire encounter has the blurry-edged feeling of a dream to it, and Zayn has been trying desperately to just push it from his mind. The image of the red dragon, head bowed to his hand, haunts him though, painstakingly preserved in his memory, and Zayn will not be surprised if he finds himself drawing it later.

If he survives until later, that is.

As he enters the Council room behind the stiff back of his mother and sees the piercing stares of his father’s entire Council, he somewhat doubts his continued existence. He has never been particularly fond of his father’s Council, planning on replacing all of the counselors once he ascended to the throne, and he swears they know this. The hostility between them all is usually muted, but today it hangs heavy in the air. The way Zayn straightens his spine and widens his shoulders is second nature by now, so very used to making himself appear as an adult even though he often feels like a child. Such is the burden of the heir to one of the Cities, a future king.

“Ah, the dragon tamer,” the mocking tone issues from the pearly smile of Verrick. Zayn flushes hard under the cruel gaze of the Master of Coin, a man with a fortune to rival the crown’s and a daughter of marriageable age for Zayn. Up until today, Zayn’s impending marriage had been his biggest concern. Now he almost wishes he had been called here for that.

“Mind your tongue,” Yaser warns, his elbows resting on the heavy wood table around which the Council always convenes. He looks tired, Zayn’s father, greyer than his years account for, though Zayn can easily spot the strength of the young man who earned Trisha’s hand and the rule of this City behind the aging exterior. Guilt curls tightly in Zayn’s throat at the weariness in his father’s eyes, knowing he indirectly put it there.

The room falls to silence as King Yaser surveys his only son. When he speaks at last, his voice carries no inflection. “Nalé Liam has told me the events of this morning, but I would like to hear from you how you came to stand before a dragon.”

“I –” Zayn hesitates, uncertain. He wishes to fidget, yet he knows he cannot betray his nerves in front of these men and hates that he must stand before them as though on trial. He settles for the simplest answer he can give. “Waliyha and I snuck down to the marketplace this morning, intending to watch the procession. When the dragon appeared, Waliyha got swept up in the crowd. When I found her again, she had run into the pathway of the Nakizi procession. I stepped in front of her when the dragon appeared. I had not known one was in the city.”

“It was not meant to be in the city,” Yaser rubs tiredly at the wrinkles around his mouth. His brown eyes, normally warm and very similar to Zayn’s own, are calmly evaluating as they study Zayn. It is not often that Zayn remembers his father is first and foremost a king, but this is one of the times in which he does. He is not a son, at the moment; he is a subject. “According to the Nalé, they did not intentionally bring the dragon with them. It followed them in the sky. When it became apparent that it intended to land, they meant to surround it. Your sister impeded their plans.”

“Waliyha did not mean to –” Zayn starts.

Yaser waves it off. “This is not about your sister and her foolishness. It is about the dragon, and you. Tell me what happened after the dragon landed.”

Zayn studies them all, trying to appear that he is not doing so. He does not understand what they are asking him for. “The dragon was preparing to snap at Waliyha,” he says slowly, eyes darting from face to face for a flicker of emotion. The men regard him, unmoved. “I – I simply moved in between them before it could.”

“The Nalé and several of his riders spoke of you jumping before the dragon,” Yaser counters. “They claim you were protecting your sister, and that you most certainly expected to face the dragon’s bite yourself. They spoke of your bravery.”

Zayn has nothing to say to that. It was not bravery; it was foolishness. He had no reason to believe he would not die, but his need to save his sister had overpowered that. Anyone might have done the same, for their own sister. Zayn thinks of Doniya, his elder sister, and knows she would have done the same for him.

“Is this not true?” another of the counselors demands. His eyes are sharp, but not as sharp as his mind. Though he is an aging man, Zayn knows that Galeton advises Yaser on business and war strategies, claiming the two are interchangeable. He is incidentally, the only counselor that Zayn had considered keeping.

“It is.”

 “Why would you do such a thing?”

Zayn shrugs. “The dragon was lunging at Waliyha. She is my sister.”

Yaser sits back, hands falling to the table. “So you were protecting your sister.”

“Anyone would do the same.”

“Not anyone,” another man interrupts, Alderfly this time. “You could not pay me to face a dragon, young Prince Zayn. Even many of the Nakizi in the Dragon Tribe will not go that near one of the beasts.”

“So he was brave,” Verrick snorts. “That explains nothing of the dragon’s reaction.”

“What happened when you stood between the dragon and your sister?” Yaser prompts. “Why did it not bite you? Kill you?”

Zayn’s eyes widen in dismay. “You think I know?”

“Do you not?” Verrick challenges.

“Of course I do not,” Zayn snaps. “I have never seen a dragon. I certainly did not expect this one to not harm me.”

“So what happened?” Alderfly pushes, all of these men relentless in their questioning.

“I placed my palm before me, and it halted. It – it allowed me to touch it, and then it remained until the other dragon goaded it away.” The description feels so wholly inaccurate though in truth it is not. There are just simply not words for the encounter. Frustration builds in Zayn, at his inability to answer as they clearly wish, and at the demand for answers at all. “That is all that happened! I certainly did nothing to tempt the dragon.”

“It chose you.”

Zayn stares at his father, unable to comprehend the sentence he just uttered. “What?”

Yaser sighs. “That is what Nalé Liam described your encounter as. He said that Fraeyn, the dragon, chose you. Apparently, it is the way the riders are chosen.”

“By the dragon?” Zayn knows he sounds incredulous, but he cannot believe that what his father says is true. The Nakizi cannot truly allow the beasts to pick a rider. That would be as if leaving the decision up to chance, throwing a rock into a crowd and seeing whom it strikes. The image of the dragon’s eyes appears in Zayn’s mind, so intelligent and knowing, but Zayn pushes it away. He cannot believe that dragons choose their riders, because he cannot believe that he was chosen. “Impossible,” he announces.

Yaser just looks at him. “That is what they say. More importantly, that is what the Nakizi believe.”

“So what does that mean?” Zayn’s heart races. Chosen by a dragon, he wants to laugh, but there is nothing funny about this, not when Yaser appears to be considering it so seriously.

“Nalé Liam...” Yaser trails off. “He believes it is a sign, but some of his people here did not agree. They have returned to their camp to speak with their elders and the rest of their people.”

“And the treaty?”

Yaser’s eyes shift quite suddenly away from Zayn’s face for the first time since he had entered the room. “The Nalé has made a counter offer to our original terms, though it might depend on what his Nakin decides regarding the dragon’s choice.”

“But he did not reject it?” Zayn presses, something like relief dancing hopefully in his chest. If he did not ruin this, if he did not destroy perhaps their only chance at surviving this conquering war the Banshians wage, then he has not failed his people already.

“He did not,” Yaser speaks slowly. “In fact you could say he made a better offer, a stronger one.”

“Stronger?” Zayn echoes, not understanding. _How does one offer a stronger alliance?_

“Just tell him,” Trisha speaks for the first time from where she stands by the door. Zayn had forgotten she remained, but he casts worried eyes at his mother now. Trisha very rarely stays for Council business, and Zayn tries to catch her eyes to silently ask why she lingers now. She does not look at him but stares at his father instead, challenging.

Yaser clasps his hands, studying them with a weighted gaze. “If the Nakin agrees, if the elders believe as the Nalé does, that you have been chosen, then Nalé Liam has agreed to offer us protection, to join us in battle if it comes to that with Banshia.”

It sounds like exactly what they had hoped for, but Zayn can hear the unspoken catch. He knows the original terms his father offered, better trade, more freedom, some land for the Nakin just outside of the city walls, and he feels suddenly that the Nakizi changed these terms. His stomach twists as he stares at his father, unable to put words to the horrible feelings and thoughts swirling through him. “In exchange for what?”

“Your hand.”

“No.”

It is not a denial of the proposal itself but rather the existence of the proposal that falls from Zayn’s lips.

Yaser must understand this because he does not comment on the denial. “If the Nakin comes to an agreement, then Nalé Liam would take your hand in marriage. His Nakin would be bound to our city, and you would be –”

“Bound to them!” Zayn cries.

“A ruler, alongside their Nalé,” Yaser corrects, though his eyes betray him. He looks sad, resigned, like he has already accepted this offer. The expression on Zayn’s mother’s face suddenly makes terrible sense, as does Verrick’s sudden anger. That marriageable daughter he might have wished Zayn to choose apparently is no longer an option.

Because Zayn is already promised to someone.

Zayn’s heart races. He knew that he would have to marry soon. He knew, but he had never imagined this. His people have not married the Nakizi for a century, at least. It is not done. The divide between them has grown too wide with the passage of years. Zayn cannot believe that his father is serious, but the gravity in Yaser’s tired eyes says otherwise.

An image of the Nalé Liam arises in his mind, his wide chest, toned and tanned, muscled through a warrior culture of fighting that will always be alien to Zayn; the curling ends of his hair pulled back from his stoic face; the way he had carried himself as a man though he is not much older than Zayn himself. Zayn cannot fathom being married to such a man, living with him, loving him, bedding –

“You said if his Nakin agrees,” Zayn reaches desperately for the conditional he suddenly remembers his father voicing. “And if they do not?”

“They will,” Galeton interrupts.

Yaser shoots him a quelling look. “Even if they reject what the Nalé believes about the dragon choosing you, the fact that he has already made the offer speaks of his intent. I believe he will still wish for your hand regardless.”

Zayn’s mouth goes dry, and he thinks the room spins around him. “You have already accepted,” he realizes, eyes focusing once more on his father as betrayal twists in his gut.

Yaser has the grace to look to the side, avoiding both Zayn’s and Trisha’s eyes. “Not in an official capacity but –”

“But you heavily implied it,” Zayn sneers. He knows the terminology, remembers learning politics at his father’s knee. The same father who has traded him away for the promise of another layer of protection, one they might not even need in a war that has not yet reached them. One more layer that might not even be enough if they do need it. Zayn feels sick.

“I am your heir,” he breathes. “I am heir to this city. How can I possibly –”

“If the proposal is accepted, the princess Doniya and her husband will be named the heirs.” The voice comes from behind him, his mother’s, and Zayn swears he can feel a cut bleeding on his back from this new betrayal. His entire future, the one he has been raised for, the one he has been promised, taken away in the span of a single day by both of his parents.

“You have traded me for a promise of protection that might fail.”

His father’s eyes sharpen. “I have given your hand in marriage to protect this city, something you once swore to do.”

_When I thought I would rule it_ , Zayn wants to say, but he bites his tongue.

It is done. Zayn’s life is forever changed, his future rewritten.

His mind still spins, fighting heedlessly against the cage he has suddenly found himself in, constructed completely without his notice, but his heart is resigned. It is like the proposal has already been accepted, the announcement already come to pass. He is promised to the Nalé of the Nakin aez Draza. He will belong to the Nakizi.

He is no longer Prince Zayn, son of King Yaser Malik and future ruler of the city of Hal and its provinces. He is now Zayn Malik, beautiful son of a king at war, promised to the uncivilized warriors his people have come to depend on. He is a trophy, a prize, a trading tool. He is no better than a piece of land, than trading rights, than an object passed from hand to hand.

Bile rises in his throat, but he forces it back. He forces it all back. The first lesson he learned, the very first as a prince, was how to hide his emotions.

“And when will I know?” he questions, voice an eerie echo of his father’s own modulated tone. “When will I know if I am to marry the Nalé Liam?”

Yaser’s eyes flicker, but his voice does not waver. “By midday, the day after tomorrow.”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So surprisingly, I have the next chapter ready in a week. Please let me know if you see any errors or words that I did not put in the glossary at the end. Also, I would suggest waiting to read the translations until you finish the chapter. Most words are explained within this chapter.
> 
> PLEASE READ, Chapter Warnings
> 
> -some violence, not graphic  
> -dub-con, where consent is given but not under ideal circumstances

“Do not fidget, Zayn, please.” His mother’s voice is very quiet, and though Zayn stares, she will not meet his eyes.

Neither of his parents have truly looked at him since the meeting in the Council room. He thinks he could hate them, that he might have the right, but he is numb. He feels nothing. The day before had stretched endlessly before him, every dip of the sun counting down to this time, this place, this moment. Marriage – once a distant inevitability – has swung into him with all the force of a wooden practice sword.

The day is here, the appointed time nearly upon him, and soon Zayn will know his fate with certainty. He wishes to hide in the castle, as he did when a little boy, but he knows his duty.

Zayn loves his city. He loves his people, and he loves his family. It twists his gut to admit it, but Zayn knows that this alliance could save them all, when the war with Banshia reaches them. And it is no longer a question of if, but when. The war is coming. Winter holds King Leiv and his army at bay on the other side of the Great Forest, but once spring thaws Kiza, the only City between Banshia and Hal is Roe. War is inevitable.

Zayn might once have hoped to lead his people against the conquering king, to be like the princes he had read about in the tales of old when the Cities were first established, but he is resigned to the way that future has twisted out of his reach. Instead he finds himself among the ranks of princesses, traded for political advantage and stoic in their bonds.

Zayn will do the same. He will stand himself on the marriage altar for his people, even if it feels more like a sacrificial altar at the hands of the Nakizi.

When a shout goes up from the guards above the castle gate, Zayn straightens his shoulders and fights the urge to fidget with his appearance. His hair has been trimmed and washed, styled so it falls in loose waves against the sharp edges of his cheekbones. It has been artfully done to make him appear softer, younger perhaps, more appealing to the Nalé. In the same vein of thought, he has been dressed in light, airy fabrics which do little to disguise his lithe form. The fall chill sinks through the nearly sheer fabric of his tunic, and his breeches cling to his thighs. A delicate circlet rests against his brow, a brilliant red gem from the canyons hanging between his eyebrows as a gesture to the Nakizi’s trade. He is both delicate and masculine, and Zayn wonders why they rely so heavily on his supposed beauty when the Nalé offered marriage because of a dragon’s choice, not anything Zayn himself had done. He doubts very much that the Nalé cares anything for him at all.

King Yaser gestures at the guards to raise the gate, not once glancing back at Zayn. He tries not to let the disregard bother him. They stand, his father, mother, and a squadron of guards, on the castle steps, arranged so that Zayn is at the center, on display, and they wait.

Just as the gate clears, three riders on horseback gallop into the courtyard in a thunder of noise. Zayn’s eyes catch on Nalé Liam immediately, mesmerized despite himself by the smooth undulations of his body atop his mount. His broad shoulders are bare once more under his vest, the black ink on his arms glistening with the sheen of oil, coated in the way Nakizi display themselves. The Nalé’s long hair is tied back today, showing the shaved sides of his head, and Zayn’s mouth goes dry at the powerful sight of him.

When the horses come to a swift stop at the bottom of the stairs, the Nalé’s eyes raise to Zayn’s. Zayn drops his gaze, sweat itching on his palms.

“He will choose you,” Queen Trisha whispers in Zayn’s ear, standing just behind him.

Zayn wonders if his mother means to be reassuring.

His father greets Nalé Liam as he descends the steps, and Zayn hears the Nalé’s rough voice answer in the Nakizi tongue. They converse for only a moment before King Yaser looks back at his son and wife.

“Zayn,” Yaser calls, imperious. Zayn walks down the steps, refusing to look up. He halts just beside his father, chin tucked down in submission. He feels like a product on display in the marketplace, the seller and buyer looking it over for faults before the purchase is done.

The king lays one hand on Zayn’s shoulder, and his voice does not waver as he asks the Nalé his question. Zayn does not have to understand Nakizi to know what his father has asked, and he cannot help the way he tenses in the silence before the Nalé answers.

“Yn.”

It is one word, but it is the only word Zayn needs to understand. His father slumps in relief, and Zayn knows.

It is done then. He is promised to Nalé Liam.

Almost immediately tears gather in his eyes, and Zayn blinks fiercely to dispel them. He will not cry, though he stands on the steps of the only home he has ever known and will now leave. He will not cry though his future and his fate have been whisked from his hands. He will not cry though who he has been his entire life, Prince Zayn, heir to Hal, is gone.

“– Zayn?”

He catches his own name on the tail end of a sentence he has not heard and glances up without thought.

He is startled to find that the Nalé is the one who has spoken and that the man is studying him closely. The two riders behind him – one the same blue-eyed man from the marketplace and the other a younger man with large, green eyes – also watch Zayn. He tilts his chin up, all too aware of the wet sheen to his eyes but unable and unwilling to hide it. Despite the near tears, he will face his future with the pride of a prince, with the pride of the Nalé husband he is meant to be. He will not be weak.

Nalé Liam’s head cocks, his forehead wrinkling. Something like recognition flickers in his eyes. “Zayn,” he repeats, voice unexpectedly soft. “Dazun.” His voice caresses the harsh word gently, but Zayn knows a command when he hears one.

He does not understand the command though, looks to his father for guidance. Yaser gestures him silently forward, towards the Nalé. Come, Zayn realizes, recognizing the word as one the Nakizi man had spoken to the dragon, Fraeyn, that fateful morning. _Come,_ Nalé Liam had said.

The thought to disobey only enters his mind for a moment; Zayn has been trained better than to keep it any longer. He walks forward on legs that feel unsteady, halting only when he almost brushes against the warm flank of the Nalé’s horse. Tilting his head up, Zayn acknowledges the Nalé’s elevated position, a position that Zayn will have to grow accustomed to. Resentment flares for a brief moment, but it fades almost immediately under the Nalé’s gaze.

 _Warm,_ Zayn thinks. _His eyes are warm._ The brown of his eyes is even warmer than it had been when the dragons played between them days ago, almost kind in a way Zayn does not understand. It is not something he expects.

A question flows from Nalé Liam’s mouth, but Zayn only recognizes it as a question because of the cadence of Nalé Liam’s tone. None of the words are familiar to him.

“I –” he starts, meaning to apologize for his own lack of knowledge, but he stumbles, embarrassed by his ignorance. He can feel blush staining his cheeks under the wise gaze of the Nalé. Watching understanding spread through his eyes makes Zayn feel laid bare.

The Nalé shakes his head. “Nk,” he says softly. His reins move to one large hand, and the other reaches suddenly down. Zayn nearly gasps as Nalé Liam’s rough fingertips caress his cheek. “Anshiayn.”

It is nearly a mirror of what the Nalé had done and said before, in the marketplace before Zayn’s father had arrived. Zayn does not know what the word means, or the meaning of the gentle touch, but he does not ask. The moment feels tenuous between them.

“Zayn,” Nalé Liam repeats, waiting for Zayn to acknowledge his name. When Zayn nods, the Nalé’s fingers slide to Zayn’s chest, resting just over his heart.

 “Ta,” Nalé Liam says it slowly, pressing slightly harder into the thin material covering the center of Zayn’s chest. “Zayn ez ta.”

Zayn’s heart pounds, but the Nalé only looks at him, waiting. Zayn nods again, slowly. He thinks he understands. _You. Zayn is you._

Nalé Liam’s fingers slide up and away, moving from Zayn’s chest to his own. “Ne.”

The Nalé waits a moment and then repeats it once more, jabbing at the flushed bare skin over his heart, “Ne.”

Zayn nods again, without waiting. _Me_. He understands.

Nalé Liam’s hand moves back to Zayn, over his heart without hesitation. “Ta? Ne?”

Zayn feels like a child being taught a very slow lesson, but his heartbeat steadies under Nalé Liam’s fingers as he nods once more. _You. Me_.

Nalé Liam repeats the same question as before, the one Zayn had not understood, and this time Zayn catches the ta and ne buried within it. The question is about them, then. Nalé Liam repeats it again, but this time he tacks on a, “Yn?” at the end.

Zayn’s brow furrows.

Nalé Liam is endlessly patient. His face is expressionless, but his eyes have not grown cold. “Ta – ne, yn?”

And Zayn –

_Ta – ne, yn?_

_You – me, yes?_

– understands, breath hitching. Nalé Liam is asking him if he wants to marry. Nalé Liam is asking _him._

It startles Zayn into looking around at the others for the first time in endless moments. Zayn’s parents’ eyes are wide, uncertain, and the other two Nakizi men look on with confusion. Zayn understands their reactions, because he feels the same. Nalé Liam has no reason to ask him. The alliance does not require it of him, so Zayn does not know why he asks.

“Zayn.” Nalé Liam’s soft yet rough voice calls him once more, so that Zayn’s eyes snap back to his face. “Ta – ne, yn?”

Zayn’s eyes flit over the tanned face of this strange man. Nalé Liam’s face is smooth and young yet indescribably old too. His eyes are warm and, Zayn swears, understanding. His fingers burn with a similar warmth through the thin fabric of Zayn’s tunic, and Zayn’s head swims.

The moment lengthens as Zayn does not answer, and he thinks he feels Nalé Liam’s fingers twitch, as though he means to withdraw from Zayn.

He quite suddenly does not want that. He does not know what Nalé Liam means by asking him, but something thrums under his ribs at the asking, nevertheless. And Nalé Liam’s eyes...

“Yn,” Zayn breathes, voice completely steady. It is his duty.

Nalé Liam stills.

“Ta – ne, yn,” Zayn repeats the entire fractured sentence, making sure to keep eye contact with Nalé Liam. “Yes.”

The fingers over his heart press harder for a brief moment, and then Nalé Liam pulls his hand away. The moment ends abruptly, and Nalé Liam turns to Yaser and speaks, voice quick and decisive. All trace of the man Zayn had just been staring at is gone. Nalé Liam is the Nalé once more.

Zayn stumbles a step back, breathing like he has dunked his head under his bathwater. He watches, dazed, as his father bows his head, speaking words of goodbye.

Nalé Liam ducks his own head in respect before his eyes dart to Zayn once more. “Unte nubemiem, Zayn.”

Zayn’s fingers press over his heart where Nalé Liam’s had been. He feels slightly dizzy, unstable, but he gazes back at the Nakizi man. “Nalé,” he offers instead of repeating the phrase. His voice glides over the word, and he dips his head in deference.

He thinks he sees the skin around Nalé Liam’s eyes crinkle, warmth present once more, if only for an instant. In the next blink of Zayn’s eyes, Nalé Liam is wheeling his horse around. Zayn startles back, but the two other Nakizi riders follow without hesitation, a dance of well-honed instinct and reflex. All three horses thunder back out of the gate.

Zayn stares blankly at the worn metal of the gate even after it lowers. He knows, distantly, that his father and Nalé Liam must have come to an arrangement for planning the wedding that he has just agreed to, but he finds that he does not care to know the details. His fingers still press to his chest, and Zayn suddenly only wants to know one thing. “What does it mean?”

Yaser and Trisha both look at him as though he is a stranger, standing before them. He ignores it.

“Unte nubemiem,” Zayn repeats the words he has said once before, when he had left the marketplace. “What does it mean?”

Yaser studies Zayn before replying, “Until we meet again.” His voice hesitates over the words though, hinting at a deeper meaning.

He does not elaborate, and Zayn does press, even as he wonders what it means that the Nalé has been promising to see Zayn again since the day they met.

 

* * *

 

The preparations for his marriage pass in a blur to Zayn, as he is hardly involved in them. He does not care that his father arranges everything with an older Nakizi man. His arrival at the castle startled Zayn until he had learned that the man acts as advisor to the Nalé. Zayn has learned that though the Nalé of a Nakin will always seek out the guidance of the elders before making a decision for the tribe, he also selects several others to fill roles much like the king’s councilors. It is one of many things that Zayn has learned about the Nakizi. His tutors, left behind once he hit sixteen winters, have returned abruptly, shoving knowledge at Zayn in the short time before his wedding.

Of the limited amount Zayn knows about his own wedding, the date is one such thing. The Nakizi cannot be delayed overly long on their fall trade route, not if they wish to return to their canyon home, Cazikan, before winter truly falls. Zayn will wed in a matter of days.

His wedding is to be a Nakizi ceremony, and though his tutors try their best, very little is actually known of what a Nakizi wedding looks like. Zayn knows it will take place outside of Hal, in an open field, because the Nakizi believe the earth and sky must witness such a union. Their belief in nature as the creator and ruler of everything guides their lives.

Outside of the location and date, Zayn only understands that his mother, father, and the Council will be allowed to witness the wedding, a gesture of goodwill from the private Nakizi people. They will depart after the vows, and Zayn will remain, part of the Nakin forevermore.

He tries not to think of it, as the days disappear from in front of him.

 

* * *

 

The sickly sweet smell of burning meat fills the air. Smoke dances languidly above fires spotted throughout the large, open field, groups of Nakizi gathered around them, joyously loud. Tents stand off to either side, an entire maze of them, and Zayn did not truly realize the size of this Nakin before today. But now it is evident to him, as he rests on a raised dais and scans the endless array of moveable homes. The Nakin is vast, numbering at least a quarter of Hal’s size, and the tents turn to specks on the outer edges of the camp. Zayn knows that one of those tents will be his; it will become his home, with Nalé Liam.

His eyes skitter over to the Nalé, on the dais with him, but Nalé Liam is paying him no mind. Nalé Liam watches the figures moving swiftly before them with undisguised glee, and Zayn tries to force himself to do the same. He turns his gaze just in time to see the bright flash of red that signals a well-aimed hit, and he flinches.

Having fights before weddings is not unheard of in Hal, but it is usually during tourneys in the days leading up to the wedding, not a part of the actual ceremony. When the first fight had begun, Zayn had recoiled, shocked and worried, until the Nakizi advisor had leaned over and explained in halting Core, Zayn’s mother tongue, that it was part of the wedding. Zayn still does not understand what they fight for, the man having only described the prize as a high honor, but his back aches with how long they have been watching.

 Zayn had hardly stepped foot inside the Nakizi camp before he was swept up by the Nakizi advisor and what seemed a guard of warriors. He was led immediately, and alone, to the raised dais on which he still sits. The Nalé already occupied one cushion, reclining on it and acknowledging Zayn with barely a nod. When Zayn had sat at the advisor’s nod, he had done so carefully, trying to keep his pristine wedding garb clean. It was a futile effort. Under the sun, Zayn is sure his brilliantly red shirt and breeches have grown hopelessly wrinkled with sweat.

The warm morning has passed under a wave of fallen men, a seemingly endless number vying for whatever the honor is. They do not truly fall, Zayn had realized after the first few fights. Their weapons are blunted, because death on a wedding day is a bad omen, but they are still sharp enough to cause damage and draw blood.

Zayn’s stomach had turned at the first few instances of bloodletting, but he has grown largely used to it. He hardly flinches as the man before him receives another glancing blow, but he does not enjoy the spectacle. Zayn is not one for fighting, never has been, and he wonders what his husband will think if he ever finds out. The Nakizi are a fighting people, a warrior race, and the Nalés are said to be the fiercest among them.

And Zayn’s soon-to-be husband is the fiercest of the Nalé, according to rumor.

Unable to help it, Zayn glances at Nalé Liam. His broad shoulders are covered today, the first time Zayn has seen him in a shirt of any kind, and the material stretches across his chest. It is a simple shirt, but it is a brilliant white. It makes his skin gleam, his killing marks black as night where they wrap around the width of his upper arms, extending down to his forearm on one arm. Zayn knows the history behind the marks, the honor and esteem they garner, and he knows how they are earned: victory in a one-on-one fight.

 The fights can be anything from a challenge within the Nakin for Nalé to a challenge from another Nalé, but regardless of the challenger or the reason, victory is only achieved one way. Single combat among the Nalé is a fight to the death.

 The marks on Nalé Liam’s arms announce how many men he has killed. It is a number great enough that Zayn has not been able to bring himself to count.

His almost husband is a warrior, and Zayn has not even picked up a sword since the height of summer. _We are an ill-suited match_.

The thought twists Zayn’s stomach, and he looks back out over the widespread ceremony. Around the edges of their central clearing, fires roar and roast a feast of food, which is brought up to the Nalé and Zayn periodically. The Nakizi group around the fires, or stand around the cleared fighting arena. They speak and laugh and celebrate the union of their leader, but Zayn has seen the narrow-eyed looks, the distrust on the peoples’ faces. He is an outsider, here, and he thinks the Nakin is not as united on this alliance as Zayn’s father believes.

Glancing at King Yaser gives Zayn no hint of his father’s current mood. He is as stoic as ever, the Queen beside him just as calm. They and the Council stand out in their formal garb. Only the Nalé has dressed differently for the day’s ceremony; the rest of the Nakizi wear their standard riding leathers or worn breeches. The men go topless, and the women wear loose shirts or tight vests and no more. In comparison, Zayn’s people seem outrageously covered, and a bubble of empty space extends all the way around them where they sit on another dais, slightly lower and to the right of where Zayn sits.

Despite their presence, Zayn feels terribly alone.

His sisters were not allowed to come. Doniya was left behind as the newly declared heir, and Waliyha and Safaa were both deemed too young to witness the wedding. Zayn aches with missing them already, especially Wali. He remembers the way she slipped into his room last night, crawling into his bed as she had not done since she was young and afraid of the summer storms. Wali had tears in her eyes as she apologized again for urging Zayn to the marketplace, and it took Zayn ages to hush her. He had flatly refused to say goodbye this morning, unwilling to put words to a separation that would only end if his City came to war. He does not even know if he will be permitted to see them should the Nakin resume regular trading with the Cities in the spring.

The moment he stepped outside of his City, he was leaving behind any certainty of seeing it again.

Zayn tries not to think of it, turning his gaze back to the fight just as one man falls to his knees and hands on the hard-packed dirt. A roar of approval surges through the crowd when he does not rise again. The other fighter turns to the Nalé and raises his sword while bowing his head. Nalé Liam bows his in return, and Zayn echoes him, as he has been doing all morning. He has no idea if this is what he should be doing, but no one has corrected him. He thinks this pattern may continue for the unforeseeable future, and the uncertainty he feels now will haunt him continuously. It is a terrible thought.

Both of the fighters move off, but two more do not immediately take their place. Zayn watches, uncertain anew, but he spots the victor remaining on the edges, playing with his blade. Another man does almost the same a short distance away.

A cup suddenly appears in front of Zayn, startling him. He glances up to see the advisor holding it for him.

“Thank you,” Zayn murmurs, gratefully sipping the fragrant liquid within. It tastes a bit like Hal’s winter wine, dark and smoky, and Zayn is careful not to gulp from it as his thirst demands. He has no stomach or head for the winter wine, and the idea of becoming drunk, here, makes his already tight stomach knot further.

“One fight remains,” the advisor nods toward the two waiting men Zayn had noticed.

Something like relief floods Zayn, and he nods again in thanks before setting the cup beside him. When he turns forward again, he catches Nalé Liam watching him. Zayn’s eyes widen, heart pounding, but Nalé Liam says nothing. He studies Zayn for a moment, eyes curiously empty, before he turns back to watching the crowds of his people dance and be joyful.

Zayn slumps. It has been this way all day, and he does not understand it. The past two times he has come into contact with the Nalé, the man has been civil, perhaps even kind. Today he is cold and silent, much like Zayn had imagined a Nalé would be. He finds that he dislikes it greatly, and he wonders if it has anything to do with the hard looks from some of the Nakizi.

He had wondered, for a brief time, if it had to do with their Nalé marrying a man, but he knows, thanks to his tutors, that it is not an uncommon event among the Nakin. Succession is not hereditary for a Nalé, the title won through combat rather, and no land and very little property exists to be inherited, so producing offspring is not a drive behind marriage for the Nakizi. It is, perhaps, the only part of Nakizi culture that suits Zayn, as Verrick had so mockingly reminded him before he left.

So no, the Nakizi are not angry over his gender, just his heritage. He is an outsider, and he wonders if the Nalé intends to always treat him as such. He does not think he will be able to stand it if his husband remains this distant, but he does not know what he will if the Nalé seeks intimacy either.

Intimacy is the one thing Zayn is striving not to think about above all others.

He knows his marriage must be consummated, and he thinks of the bedding tradition within Hal. The bride and groom are escorted to their room by their closest friends and family, who remain outside while the bedding takes place. The tradition has always made Zayn uncomfortable, and he cannot think about what the Nakizi equivalent will be. Fear strikes hard in his gut, and he turns his mind from those thoughts.

The Nalé’s deep voice resounds from beside Zayn, and he glances over to see his future husband gesturing to the two waiting fighters. When he turns back, Zayn watches them both entering the clearing. He recognizes instantly one of the men, the blue-eyed one who has accompanied the Nalé every time Zayn has seen him. It is no surprise then, that when Zayn looks to the Nalé he is watching the men approach each other with more than his usual attention.

When the other man, a taller Nakizi with a longer sword whose reach almost doubles the blue-eyed man’s, takes a swing, the Nalé leans forward in apprehension. Zayn frowns and wonders at the reaction, emotional and instinctive, before his attention is diverted to the fight.

He had thought, initially, that the blue-eyed man would lose, but watching him dance around the sweep of the other man’s blade, he believes he was wrong. He is quick, unbelievably so, and the muscles of his legs stand out thickly. When Zayn looks even closer, he sees multiple killing bands wrapped around the man’s upper arms. The blue-eyed man is a skilled fighter then, and it becomes even more obvious as the fight continues.

Though the other fighter’s reach is longer, he tires quickly. Instead of conserving his energy, he takes every opportunity to swing at the blue-eyed man, not seeming to realize that his opponent is goading him. The blue-eyed man’s strikes, in comparison, are teasing. They are smacks of the broad side of the sword to the man’s sides and stomach, bruises but not cutting. As Zayn watches, paying more attention than he has to any of the other fights, the blue-eyed man ducks under another broad sweep of the long sword, and then fairly dances around the other man. A transformation comes over him halfway through the maneuver, eyes suddenly going flinty and fierce, and when he twists, he brings his sword back in a far arc. The slice of the sword forward not only knocks the other man to his knees, but leaves a cut along the length of his back. The other man lets out a startled noise. He attempts to rise again, using his sword for aid, but the blue-eyed man knocks it from his hand and places a foot to his back, forcing him down once more.

Zayn winces at the way the blue-eyed man presses against the fresh cut, but the crowd roars its approval. Nalé Liam leaps to his feet beside Zayn, shouting his own joy before he jumps from the dais to embrace the victor.

“Prince Zayn.” The advisor’s voice, gravelly over the smoother Core language, calls Zayn’s attention to where he stands just to the side. “It is time.”

Zayn does not need the Nakizi man to elaborate. He swallows heavily but rises as bidden. Straightening his clothes habitually, his one concession to nerves is the glance he sends over his shoulder to his parents and the Council. They watch from their seats, the picture of courtly decorum. With a firm hand, the advisor guides Zayn forward to the edge of the dais. Nalé Liam and the victor meet them there.

The clearing that had been left for the fighting fills with the sudden press of the Nakizi, fire pits and food abandoned as the Nakin comes forward to watch their leader wed. The loud buzz of conversation which had not faltered throughout the morning hushes now so silence covers them all.

Zayn can feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on him, and though it is only a quarter of the Nakin that can truly see him, he feels hopelessly surrounded. The advisor pulls away when the Nalé and the blue-eyed man climb onto the dais, and Zayn fights his instinct to step away.

The Nalé moves to Zayn’s side, and the blue-eyed man walks around them, facing the crowd. The set up sparks Zayn’s mind, and he suddenly understands what honor the Nakizi had been fighting for. The blue-eyed man will conduct the ceremony.

His blue eyes evaluate Zayn, and they are not warm or friendly. They are cold and vaguely displeased. Zayn remembers, quite suddenly, that this man protested loudly to something Nalé Liam had said that day at the marketplace. He does not need to speak to this man to understand that he does not approve of the alliance or this marriage. Zayn wishes to retreat, but the Nalé is there, almost shoulder to shoulder with Zayn. Murmurs spread throughout the assembled crowd.

He feels unbearably small beside the two Nakizi warriors, and the feeling only increases when the blue-eyed man raises his arms, holding a sword in each, over them. He crosses the swords with a sharp slide, and the move only highlights the blood and sweat on his bare chest. Zayn must look a fool in his rich red silk shirt, which clings to his thin build. The Nalé dwarves him.

“Jak!” the blue-eyed man cries, voice loud in its suddenness as it splits over the crowd. He clangs his swords together three times. Silence falls, and Zayn fights not to turn and seek out his parents. He is not sure what he would find there besides. The man continues holding up the swords, his arms not so much as twitching under the strain.

A warm hand on his shoulder surprises Zayn, but he turns with it as it guides him. He meets Nalé Liam’s eyes and sees the almost familiar brown color. Nalé Liam is curiously empty of expression, though he does meet Zayn’s gaze now. His hand falls from Zayn’s shoulder once they are facing each other, and they are close enough to be nearly touching. Zayn feels he cannot breathe for fear of accidentally brushing against the other man.

The blue-eyed man raises his voice once more, but a string of unintelligible Nakizi falls from his mouth this time. Zayn understands none of it, of course, but he recognizes the cadence of recitation. The wedding has begun, in truth.

Nalé Liam’s hand moves suddenly to Zayn’s heart, and Zayn’s eyes widen. The gesture is familiar, and he is less surprised when the Nalé guides Zayn’s hand to rest over his heart as well. Zayn presses harder than he ought to over the white material of Nalé Liam’s shirt, somehow reassured when he feels the beat of Nalé Liam’s heart under his fingertips. It is not as fast as Zayn’s own, but then again, Nalé Liam does not have as much to fear. The Nalé’s hand falls away, but Zayn keeps his steady so that they are connected by the press of their palms to the other’s chest.

The man performing the ceremony trails off, his voice ceasing, and Zayn glances at him uneasily. He only watches Nalé Liam expectantly though, so Zayn turns back. Nalé Liam has produced a braided leather cuff from somewhere, and Zayn suddenly remembers the one tradition he had been told about before his wedding.

At weddings, the Nakizi trade leather bracelets, much the way Zayn’s people trade family crests sewn on cloaks. The bracelets are meant to be worn for the rest of their lives, repaired whenever they start to fray, representing the work which goes into a marriage. If one person stops repairing the bracelet, it represents their desire to break the union. Once the bracelet falls off from neglect, the marriage is over in the eyes of the Nakin.

The meaning behind the bracelets, the way they worked within the Nakizi culture, appealed to Zayn deeply, and he had started working on his own leather cuff for Liam almost immediately after learning he was responsible for its creation.

With gentle fingers, the Nalé grabs Zayn’s wrist in one hand, removing his other from over Zayn’s heart so that he can tie the bracelet. He wraps the leather band he produced around Zayn’s wrist, and Zayn is surprised by how thick it feels. It is a strong cuff, braided so that it will be hard to break. Zayn wonders if that is symbolic, if Nalé Liam intends for it to hardly fray. He ties it tightly, like he does not wish it to ever fall off. Zayn flushes when the Nalé tugs on it to check before he releases Zayn’s wrist.

Zayn removes his hand from the Nalé’s chest to grab his wrist. He pulls his own leather band from a forgotten pocket with trembling fingers. His is not braided like Nalé Liam’s, though it also of thick leather. Zayn doubts it will fray before decades have passed. The thought is oddly pleasing as Zayn looks at what he has made. The design on it is perhaps more intricate than the simple braids of Nalé Liam’s, and Zayn feels almost childish as he wraps it around Nalé Liam’s wrist. He had burnt a design into the leather himself and had drawn the images out by hand first.

On the leather, two dragons wrap around each other; inspired by the way the two dragons had played in the marketplace, Zayn had drawn it out. The two dragons emblazoned on the leather twist their necks together like a knot, the way their real life counterparts had around the Nalé and Zayn. Something about the imagery of it had appealed to Zayn. A twining together of two separate objects had seemed right for a marriage, but he feels foolish now as he ties it onto Nalé Liam’s wrist. The Nalé does not even glance at the image.

When Zayn’s fingers return to Nalé Liam’s chest the Nalé mirrors him. Their leather cuffs stand out starkly around their raised wrists, and the blue-eyed man begins speaking once they settle. His voice is nice, almost melodic, as he speaks clearly and loudly to the assembled crowd, which watches raptly.

Though Zayn cannot understand what the man says, he can hear how his voice is raising gradually. He ends in a shout, the crowd echoes it back, and Zayn’s heart nearly stops when the Nalé’s fingers suddenly curl into the fabric of Zayn’s shirt. He is dragged closer, thoughts flying to the kiss usually exchanged at the end of a Halian wedding, but Nalé Liam does not kiss him. Gently, Nalé Liam removes Zayn’s fingers from his chest, twining his own with them. Their skin is warm together, shared body heat, and Nalé Liam simply presses a kiss to the clasped hands held between them, lips lingering against Zayn’s skin for half a heartbeat.

Another shout erupts from the crowd, and Zayn tears his eyes away from the Nalé with difficulty. He stares out at the roiling crowd as the Nakizi stamp their feet in obvious joy, whatever animosity they had towards him forgotten. The swords are lowered out of the corner of Zayn’s eye, and he understands; the ceremony is done.

He is wed.

Nalé Liam’s slight tug on their still intertwined fingers brings Zayn’s eyes back to him. He is watching Zayn, mouth more lax than Zayn has seen it yet today. The warmth Zayn wishes to see in his eyes is not present, but the fear that had plagued Zayn is gone. He follows meekly as the Nalé leads him to the edge of the dais. It takes Zayn a moment to focus, but when he does, he sees the Council and his parents waiting there.

Zayn’s throat instantly goes dry as he realizes that he is meant to say goodbye now, and he almost wants to pull away from Nalé Liam. He knows better though and simply leans down. His mother’s hands find him first, cradling his face. She opens her mouth, as though to speak, but no words come out. Zayn presses his free hand to hers in understanding. He does not have the words either. A tear breaks free from the corner of her eye as she strokes along his cheekbone once and then releases him.

Zayn’s father steps into her place as she turns away and hides herself in the crowd of the Council and their guards. Yaser’s calm face is cracking, and Zayn finds himself unable to meet his father’s eyes. Familiar hands rest of Zayn’s shoulders, and his father’s voice is quiet in his ear, “Thank you, my son. Thank you for doing this for our people.”

Zayn can only nod when his father pulls away. The councilors bow in respect, even Verrick, who has spent the entire ceremony with his nose wrinkled in disdain. As one they move to depart, halted only when Nalé Liam suddenly steps forward.

“King Yaser,” his voice comes out strong and firm. His hand tightens around Zayn’s as he meets Zayn’s father’s gaze. “Gunsuim, pez tar kater. E gav saishi pez hic.”

Yaser’s eyes flicker with surprise, glancing to Zayn and then back to the Nalé. “Gunsuim, Nalé. Gunsuim.”

Nalé Liam looks to Zayn as well, sharp eyes taking in his face, and Zayn cannot hope to hide whatever emotion is writ there. Whatever the Nalé sees, he does not betray how he feels about it. He turns to Yaser once again and says, “Unte nubemiem.”

Zayn’s breath hitches, hand tightening without thought around the Nalé’s. _Until we meet again._ The words soothe Zayn’s frayed nerves, especially as his father repeats them back. It makes it bearable to watch them leave after that, though Zayn’s eyes still follow them until the crowd swallows their figures from sight.

“Zayn,” the Nalé’s voice traces over his name carefully, and Zayn does not even have to force himself to look at his husband.

“Nalé,” he returns, remembering the way the Nalé’s eyes had warmed the last time Zayn had addressed him directly.

Those crinkles Zayn has seen only once appear again by Nalé Liam’s eyes, just briefly as he reaches forward and touches Zayn’s cheek gently. His fingers only linger for a moment, and then he pulls away.

He faces the crowd of Nakizi before them with strong shoulders and a confidence that Zayn envies. Their faces look expectant, but Zayn does not know what they wait for. The Nakizi advisor told him nothing of what would happen after the ceremony.

 “Vulkeyun!” Nalé Liam calls, voice loud and commanding, forceful. Immediately the crowd parts, revealing two men walking towards them. Zayn recognizes both as the men who had accompanied Nalé Liam when he had accepted the marriage agreement. Nalé Liam speaks quickly with the younger one, whose green eyes appear to almost brighten at whatever Nalé Liam has said. He nods once, his long curly hair bouncing, and then departs.

The other one begins speaking to Nalé Liam rapidly, and Zayn ignores the conversation because he cannot hope to understand it. All the while though, Nalé Liam keeps their fingers firmly tangled. Zayn wonders if it is a practice of the Nakizi. Perhaps it is tradition for the two wed persons to remain tethered physically.

When the curly-haired man reappears, he gives a nod to Nalé Liam and a bright grin to Zayn.

Zayn tilts his head, curious, but then an instantly recognizable shadow darts over them. He looks up with a gasp to see a large shape spinning lazily in the air above them. His heart races.

The entire morning Zayn had tried to suppress thoughts of the dragon, refusing to let his eyes wander the skies in hopes of spotting them. Disappointment had filled him when he had not caught a single glance of them in the Nakin’s camp, but now his breath catches at the familiar shape of the red dragon circling above.

“Fraeyn!” Nalé Liam calls, voice echoing upward.

The sudden gust of wind is all the warning Zayn gets before the red dragon is standing in the clearing before them, the crowd parting easily for the beast. The sun gleams off of its scales, and its wings spread to their full length, no longer restrained by the buildings of the city. _Beautiful_ , Zayn thinks, staring at it. This dragon is beautiful, all long, lean lines, and sharp edges. It stares easily at Zayn, as though it recognizes him, and Zayn cannot look away.

A sharp tug at his hand snaps Zayn’s attention to the Nalé, who tugs once more and takes a step. Zayn follows him in a daze as they step down from the dais and walk towards the dragon.

When they are a short distance away, the Nalé stops them and untangles his hand from Zayn’s. At Zayn’s uncertain look, he nods towards the dragon. “Tar.”

Zayn’s heart trips in his chest. “What?”

The Nalé’s mouth twitches, just slightly. “Fraeyn ez tar. Zayn’m.”

The dragon, Fraeyn, snakes her head forward, long neck extending, and Zayn floats forward on numb legs. He is not certain who reaches forward, if his hand seeks the dragon or the dragon seeks his hand, but the feeling of smooth, warm scales underneath his palm settles his heart the way nothing has all morning. His chest expands and then shrinks with one great breath, all unspoken fears of a mistake put aside at the easy way Fraeyn accepts his touch once more.

When smoke billows from Fraeyn’s nostrils, Zayn laughs, swearing he can feel the beast’s contentment. That same connection thrums through him that he felt once before, and he wonders at the idea that dragons pick their riders. He wonders, for the first time, if the belief is true. When the dragon makes a noise much like a purr, Zayn smiles wide enough to hurt his jaw.

Heat at his back alerts Zayn to the Nalé’s presence, so he is not entirely surprised when a tattooed arm appears over his and another hand settles on the dragon’s snout. Fraeyn does not react to the touch, though the Nakizi around them break into a round of muttering.

“Tar,” the Nalé says, firm.

 _Yours,_ Zayn understands. He is not certain whether the dragon became his the moment he touched it in the marketplace, or if the Nalé is gifting Fraeyn to him now, but the gesture soothes him regardless.

“Gunsuim,” he murmurs, ducking his head out of fear that he will butcher the word. He sees, out of the corner of his eye, the way Nalé Liam turns to stare at him, tilting his head in a move that Zayn is coming to recognize as quietly evaluating.

“Sashuin,” the Nalé replies, voice a low and private mumble.

Zayn’s brow wrinkles for a moment before he can puzzle the word out. _Welcome,_ used in multiple meanings just as in Core.

Fraeyn shifts beneath their hands to press against them firmer, and Zayn’s smile settles into something softer. He feels curiously calm.

When the Nalé’s hand shifts over the top of his and curls around his fingers, gently pulling him away, Zayn allows it with only a slight pang of regret. Fraeyn’s golden eyes follow the movement, but the dragon makes no move to follow.

“Harry!” Nalé Liam’s voice calls.

The curly-haired man strides up to them, a small, apologetic smile on his young face. “Fraeyn.” His deep voice wraps around the word in a gentle command. “Dazun.”

Zayn watches in surprise as the man, Harry, moves off. His eyes remain trained on Fraeyn as he does, and the dragon huffs out another cloud of smoke.

“Fraeyn,” his voice is edging into laughter, Zayn thinks, but Harry continues walking away. “Dazun!”

Fraeyn’s eyes flicker from Harry to Zayn, questioning. Zayn feels words gather in his mouth, unbidden, words to give permission. When he opens his lips, they flow almost naturally, “Unte nubemiem, Fraeyn.”

He steps away as he says it, clearing the path from Harry to the dragon. He has no idea if Fraeyn understands his words or if the dragon responds to his movement, but with another small huff of smoke, it follows Harry out of the crowd. Watching the dragon walk, Zayn cannot help but think of the bell dancers who frequent the high street in Hal. They move sinuously, as though each step is not separate but one part of a whole; Fraeyn moves the same way. 

“Zayn,” Nalé Liam’s voice calls to him, and Zayn turns to see that he has one hand extended yet again. “Dazun, Zayn.”

He moves towards Nalé Liam’s outstretched hand without hesitation, far too aware of the hundreds of eyes still on them. The title of husband begs him to listen, and Zayn feels no urge to ignore his duty. The Nakizi watch as Nalé Liam guides Zayn in front of him. The Nalé’s hand slips up Zayn’s arm, light, until it lands on his shoulder. His other hand joins it, and the Nalé pushes slightly, urging Zayn forward. Zayn steps through the crowd, uncertain, but the Nalé presses tight up against his back until Zayn cannot help but feel sheltered by his presence.

The crowd begins to murmur once more, and when Zayn mistakenly catches a Nakizi woman’s eye, he nearly recoils from the apparent anger there. Disapproval hangs in the air, and Zayn does not understand.

The people shift slowly out of their way, closer than they were before, but they do move. When a man before them seems like he will not, the Nakizi advisor appears before Zayn to push him back. Zayn watches the display with confusion, but he does not resist the Nalé’s continued guidance.

When he realizes that the Nalé is guiding him towards the tents, Zayn nearly does, but the firm hands on his shoulders dissuade him. He does not let his mind think on where they are headed, placing one foot in front of the other, docile and dutiful.

Regardless of their inability to conceive, a consummation to solidify their union is needed. In Halian custom, a marriage which is not consummated can be annulled at any moment if the families press, and in Nakizi custom, people are not truly wed until the earth witnesses their physical union.

Zayn knew what would be required of him, and though his palms itch once more in nervousness, he will not fight this.

Once they break free of the crowd and only the blue-eyed man who wed them remains at their sides, the Nalé relaxes. His hands remain on Zayn’s shoulders though, guiding him through the maze of tents toward the center of the camp. The journey seems to both last forever and end suddenly, until they stop at a large tent. The sun finally begins to dip towards the horizon, and Zayn can see smoke rising from inside where a fire must already be lit for them. He shivers, not entirely from the cold.

“Liam,” the blue-eyed man’s voice breaks the quiet, and Zayn startles at the dropped title. He glances at the man, but the man is looking only at his Nalé, even as he gestures at Zayn and spits out a harsh string of Nakizi words.

The Nalé’s brow pinches, but he waits until the other man is done speaking before he reaches a hand forward and places it on his shoulder. “Louis,” he states calmly, a familiarity to his tone that speaks of a deeper relationship between the two. “Jak, vulkeyun.”

The man, Louis, shrugs the Nalé’s hand off and snaps something in response.

Anger breaks across Nalé Liam’s face, sudden and intense, and Zayn almost stumbles away from him. It is the first time he has seen the Nalé anything other than calm, and it reminds him suddenly of the marks decorating his husband’s arms. His husband is a warrior, and he has a warrior’s anger.

Fear, new and terrifying in its newness, spikes down through Zayn’s stomach.

Louis’s tone immediately switches from snappish to pleading. He sounds like he is begging Nalé Liam to reconsider something, but the Nalé dismisses him, “Nk.

“Jak. E gav nkd.” The Nalé sounds like he will not be moved, and Louis must hear it too, for he steps away. His frown is harsh, and when Zayn catches his eye, Louis snarls at him.

The Nalé pays him no mind, reaching around Zayn to tug the tent flap aside. His chest pushes into Zayn’s back, urging him inside, and Zayn acquiesces, desperate to get away from the other man’s sudden anger. He walks into the tent and does not stop until he stands in the center of the wide space, eyes tracking over the faded brown fabric of the walls and the random collection of items. A fire burns in a brazier off to one side, and another swath of fabric hangs from the center of the tent, pulled aside to unveil the very back of the tent. Zayn’s eyes land on a large pile of furs and blankets lying on the swept dirt floor. He thinks he can see a pallet of some sort beneath them, cushions tossed amongst the pile, and he realizes this is to be his marriage bed.

 Zayn turns his head abruptly away, gazing at the hard packed floor. He feels a fool, as though he is a blushing virgin. Yet the fumbling hands in the dark of his adolescence have not prepared him for this night. He has never surrendered himself like this, and terror grips him tightly at the thought that he will.

A movement in the corner of his vision makes Zayn look up. Nalé Liam moves slowly but assuredly toward him. His shirt has already been shrugged out of, and his tan chest gleams in the circle of firelight. At any other time, Zayn might have admitted how stunning Nalé Liam looks and how his attraction for the man seems to grow at every encounter, but unspoken expectations weigh him down.

He must bed his husband, this fierce warrior whom Zayn does not know. Fear does not aptly describe the vast emotions roiling within him.

Nalé Liam steps closer, and Zayn fights the desire to move away. It is not a desire which makes sense, not when Zayn acknowledges the other desire burning in his stomach: the desire to touch the Nalé.

The two should be mutually exclusive, yet they hit up against each other in Zayn’s confused mind. Fear and desire make him still as stone as Nalé Liam circles Zayn. His brown eyes dance in the firelight, but Zayn sees the way they darken with desire. He does nothing to disguise his interest, and Zayn is suddenly, brutally aware of their size difference. Nalé Liam’s muscle is made hard from his life, while Zayn’s form leans toward lithe. He is under no illusions over who would overpower whom, here.

He only hopes it will not come to such force.

If Zayn were perfectly honest with him, he would admit that in his secret heart he had hoped for a marriage of love, not political gain. He might have imagined his wedding night as a tender bonding between him and someone he loved and trusted, not a stranger. But Zayn cannot think about such a wishful desire now.

His husband is a stranger, and Zayn does not yet trust him. Uncertainty fills the air.

“Dazun,” Nalé Liam’s voice breaks the tense silence of the tent. The Nalé turns from where he circles Zayn, and Zayn watches him warily as he glides towards the back and the pile of furs. Forcing himself to follow, Zayn comes to stand beside the bed, not quite able to force himself onto it. Nalé Liam does not seem bothered by this, as he pulls the hanging loose, blocking the entrance of the tent from their view, and them from it.

A small part of Zayn is grateful for this hint of privacy, and even more grateful that they are isolated in the ocean of tents, far from the festivities. He could not bear witnesses.

Zayn expects Nalé Liam to approach him again, but Nalé Liam does not. Lighting candles which rest on a crate beside the pile of bedding, the Nalé leaves Zayn to himself. Once done, he faces Zayn but does not watch him as he slips out of his breeches. Zayn bites back a gasp at the abrupt bareness. His eyes trace over the paler skin of the Nalé’s legs, wide and powerful with muscle from riding, before flickering there and away from his groin.

Nalé Liam is beautiful; Zayn cannot deny it.

Nalé Liam watches Zayn unflinchingly, and Zayn attempts to return the steady look. After a moment, the Nalé approaches him, flicking his hand towards the bedding. Zayn catches sight of a small vial landing, and he flushes at the sight of the oil he knows they require. Fear tightens his belly, sudden and sharp, and he glances again at his husband’s length. He cannot imagine it thrusting inside of him, even if the way is slicked.

The Nalé’s fingers wrap around Zayn’s wrist, above the leather cuff, and Zayn focuses on that. His thumb traces over the leather before moving slowly. The Nalé traces up Zayn’s arm lightly before shifting to the hem of Zayn’s fine tunic. He pauses for a moment, and Zayn breathes out, slow and careful before raising his arms in permission. Nalé Liam slips the tunic over his head and off. It drops to the floor beside Zayn’s feet, careless, and Nalé Liam’s hand settles on Zayn’s bare chest. Zayn shudders at the unexpected, warm touch. Nalé Liam’s hand is both soft and rough as it runs over Zayn’s chest, pausing for a moment just over his heart.

“Zayn,” Nalé Liam calls.

Zayn does not look up. He cannot.

The hesitation of Nalé Liam’s hand is only minor before he moves slowly lower. His fingers catch at the lip of Zayn’s breeches, and he tugs once, lightly, before letting his hand rest there. His knuckles brush Zayn’s tense abdomen with every inhalation as Zayn strives to keep himself calm. When Zayn finally dares to look up, Nalé Liam is watching him.

“Yn?” he questions, followed by another slight tug at Zayn’s waist.

Just as on the castle steps, Zayn is surprised that the Nalé asks him, but once more, the fact that he does soothes Zayn. It quiets his fear enough for Zayn to agree.

His hands shake slightly as he undoes the ties of his breeches. His eyes drop as the material falls down his thin legs, pooling at his feet. Zayn steps out of it, awareness of his nudity flooding him. The warm candlelight illuminates every inch of his darker skin, and though he cannot bring himself to meet Nalé Liam’s eyes again, he can feel the weight of his gaze.

Nalé Liam circles him once again before coming to a stop behind Zayn this time. His chest presses slightly against Zayn’s back, skin almost unbearably warm. “Anshiayn,” Nalé Liam murmurs, voice rough though the cadence of the word is smooth on his tongue.

The Nalé’s hand has not left Zayn’s skin, following his pathway around Zayn until it rests along Zayn’s hip. The touch demands Zayn’s focus.

He cannot speak, though it would not matter if he could. The language barrier, always between them, feels insurmountable now.

When Nalé Liam’s fingers skim back and forth over the line where Zayn’s breeches once rested, he cannot repress a shiver. His cock gives an interested twitch despite himself, and Zayn feels conflicting emotions clash inside of him. Fear still grips his gut tightly, but he knows that this will be better if he allows himself to enjoy it.

Fingers suddenly nudge at Zayn’s chin, knocking his face up and to the side so that Nalé Liam can meet his eye. Zayn’s neck strains slightly at the angle, but he allows it. Nalé Liam’s eyes are still dark with arousal as he searches Zayn’s face with intent. “Yn, Zayn?” he asks.

Zayn understands the word, but does not understand the intent behind it. _Yes_? Of course, yes. They must. The wedding must be consummated.

Nalé Liam must take his silence for agreement, for his hand drifts lower. The first touch of his fingers lightly down the length of Zayn’s flaccid cock makes him shiver. He twitches again, and Zayn fights with himself. Part of him wants to move into Nalé Liam’s touch, but another part refuses to let go. Nalé Liam repeats the motion, and Zayn grits his teeth, back so straight it nearly hurts.

“Yn?” Nalé Liam repeats again, restlessly.

Zayn does not answer; he cannot. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth and his body alight with twisted feelings. His desire feels wrong in the face of his circumstance. He did not choose this marriage, so he did not choose this.

Nalé Liam’s hand suddenly and abruptly pulls away. He moves back, and Zayn nearly falls in surprise. He had not realized that he had rested his weight against Nalé Liam, but with Nalé Liam’s removal, he stumbles. When he rights himself, he turns toward the retreating Nalé.

Nalé Liam gazes at him, face empty and smooth. “Nk,” he shakes his head. “Nk, Zayn.”

Zayn’s stomach plummets sharply to his feet, panic making him react. His hand clamps around the Nalé’s wrist, above the leather bracelet Zayn had spent so much time making. The Nalé halts at once, and Zayn marvels. The man is listening to him.

Zayn wants to trust that, he does, but trust is hard. “Nalé,” he tries, voice rough and unused.

The Nalé shakes his head, cutting Zayn off. “Nk. Nkd Nalé. Liam.”

Zayn’s heart flutters, and his voice is rough for a different reason when he dares say, “Liam.” The name feels intimate on his tongue, and he swallows hard at the twitch of the Nalé’s cock.

The Nalé – no, Liam – Liam takes a step forward again, and his eyes are warm once more. “Zayn,” his voice is careful. “Yn?”

_Yes?_

Zayn’s thoughts race as he watches his husband. He thinks of the killing bands wrapped around his thick arms. He thinks of the warmth in his eyes. He thinks of an arranged marriage. He thinks of Liam asking his permission, not just now but before.

He thinks of the rigid set of Liam’s shoulders during the ceremony, but then he thinks of the crinkles around Liam’s eyes and the booming warmth of his laugh in the marketplace. He thinks of his duty to his City and his people, and he thinks of the desire burning just under a layer of fear.

Zayn thinks of himself, finally, and he thinks that this, this moment he can claim back, for himself.

With a trembling hand, Zayn tightens his slim fingers around Nalé Liam’s wrist, guiding his hand back to Zayn’s skin. He does not go so far as to place it on his bare cock, but he places it firmly on his hip once more. Nalé Liam’s fingers wrap easily around the delicate bone, and Zayn shudders. His cock twitches, and Zayn fights the wave of fear that tries to rise. Instead he lets himself linger in the other sensation that floods him: want. When Zayn dares to look back up, Nalé Liam is studying him, waiting.

“Yn, Nalé Liam. Liam,” Zayn whispers. “Please, I – Yn.”

It is not the elegant statement Zayn might have wished, but it is what Liam has been waiting for. He pulls Zayn to him, sudden, until they brush against each other, skin to skin with every breath. Zayn’s breath falls from his lips in hitches, and Liam pulls them both to stand in the middle of the bedding. His hands press down on Zayn’s shoulder, guiding him gently down to his knees, and Liam follows.

Liam’s finger traces over Zayn’s sharp cheekbone, dragging along the soft skin, and he moves slowly behind Zayn once more. The vial is gone from Zayn’s sight, and he knows that Liam must hold it. He shudders at the sudden press of fingers to his spine. They trace, up and down, until Zayn relaxes, and then they dip lower.

Zayn nearly bows under the first press of Nalé Liam’s finger to his hole. He has had his own fingers inside of him before, only once or twice, but never anyone else’s. Familiar and not at the same time, Zayn is overwhelmed by the touch.

When Nalé Liam presses his other hand gently at Zayn’s shoulder, urging him onto his hands and knees, Zayn allows it. He feels exposed like this, his half-hard cock twitching as Liam moves behind him. When his fingers press against Zayn again, they are cold with oil. Zayn hisses, and the Nalé makes a hushing sound, rubbing his other hand over Zayn’s side in a calming motion.

The first press of Nalé Liam’s finger inside of him stings, and Zayn closes his eyes against the pain. It is normal he knows. He was warned that he might not feel any pleasure from this, not the first time, and he does not, at first. But as Nalé Liam works his finger in and out the sharp burn fades. When another fingertip nudges at his rim before joining the first, a stretching feeling overwhelms any pain, and Zayn is shocked to find that it feels good.

Liam works him open on two fingers before adding a third, and the sensation of pleasure increases. Zayn bites his lip to hold back a surprised noise. He does not know if the Nalé will want to hear him enjoying this, so he absolves to keep silent. That absolution is ruined almost instantly when Liam’s fingers twist and brush against something that sends spark racing up Zayn’s spine.

Zayn chokes on a moan, and Nalé Liam’s fingers pause. “Zayn, yn?”

Zayn breathes out slowly, flushed from embarrassment and something else. His fingers tremble against the furs, but his voice is steady when he says, “Yn, Liam. Yes.”

“Yes,” Liam repeats. A thrum skips through Zayn’s stomach at the single word in Core. Nalé Liam’s fingers move, steadily in and out. There’s a certain rhythm to it all, one that Zayn almost wants to move to, but he doesn’t.

When Nalé Liam’s fingers withdraw, Zayn feels empty. His fingers clench in the furs but relax when he feels Liam press more firmly against him. The slide of his cock along the back of Zayn’s thigh makes him shudder, and when hands settle on Zayn’s hip, he hangs his head. He breathes deeply, anticipation and fear racing along his skin, but he does not let himself tense. At the first press of something against his hole, he presses back.

The Nalé groans, and his hands tighten. He thrusts, sudden, and Zayn bites his lip to contain a pained gasp. It burns, and he fights to breathe through the return of pain.

 “Zayn,” Nalé Liam murmurs, and Zayn cannot tell if it is in joy or something else.

He is grateful when Nalé Liam does not move right away. He does not trust that he could hold back cries of pain. Forcing himself to relax takes time, but when the Nalé thrusts again, shallow, Zayn has himself under enough control that he does not make a noise. The pain does not go away, fading to a low burn in the background, but Zayn ignores it.

The rhythm from before resumes, and the Nalé’s hands tighten their hold so he can control it. Groans sound behind him, and Zayn focuses on the other sensations. He feels stretched wide, not an unpleasant feeling, and as the pain fades, Zayn relaxes further. When Nalé Liam shifts his next thrust, he brushes up against something white hot.

Zayn gasps, vision darkening all at once. He must tense because Nalé Liam pauses. Zayn wants to apologize, to urge Nalé Liam to continue, but he cannot speak. Pleasure overwhelms the pain for a moment, and when it fades, the pain does not feel as present. His breathing hitches in his chest, escaping in pants from his mouth, and Zayn does not know how to ask for Liam to repeat the motion. He does not have to. Liam thrusts forward once more, intentional and firm, and he hits the same spot.

Zayn’s spine bows, and he gasps, “Liam.”

Liam shifts, still on that spot, and pleasure thrums through Zayn. His movements slow into a tentative rhythm once more, and Zayn nearly groans. His arms shake as they hold him up, jolts of pleasure dancing up his spine as Liam thrusts into him. Pressure builds in Zayn’s lower back, and he feels sweat beading on his forehead. The pain never fades entirely, but the pleasure swallows it until Zayn feels like he will burst. When a hand wraps around his cock, Zayn loses track of everything except the rising tide of feeling inside of his abdomen. He knows the feeling, and yet when he comes, Zayn cries out in shock.  

He clenches hard around Nalé Liam, who moans. Liam’s hands, both gripping tightly at Zayn’s hips once more, spasm, and his fingers dig in hard enough that Zayn thinks he will bruise. When Nalé Liam thrusts again, the sensation is tight and dizzying. Zayn feels sensitive, and he gasps when Nalé Liam picks up his thrusts again, faster this time. They grow unsteady, and Liam’s breath punches out of him in a rapid rhythm until he falls still, all at once. A moan echoes from his throat as he comes.

Zayn holds still underneath the unfamiliar feeling. The rush of Zayn’s orgasm passes, but he cannot move. They stay like that, Nalé Liam’s hands holding his hips, Zayn’s arms going numb, and both of them breathing harder than usual. Sweat cools along Zayn’s skin, and he feels unbalanced.

When Nalé Liam pulls out, Zayn has to bite back another small noise. The empty feeling from before is back, but worse. Zayn can feel it as come drips out of him, and he does not know what he is meant to do. His mind feels fuzzy, but he notices when Liam shifts away and then back. The feeling of rough fabric against his backside makes Zayn jump slightly, but Nalé Liam places a hand back on Zayn’s hip to still him, murmuring in a reassuring tone. He wipes Zayn carefully down, and Zayn stays still for it. He is surprised at the gentle, considerate treatment, but he does not show it.

When both of Nalé Liam’s hands rest on him, urging him to turn over, Zayn twists in them with ease. He lets Nalé Liam gentle him back against the furs and does nothing when Liam lays beside him. They are silent, the fire burning lower in their tent, and nightfall pressing down on the Nakizi camp.

The bed is surprisingly comfortable underneath him, Nalé Liam warm beside him. When Nalé Liam tugs a fur over them, Zayn lets him arrange it. They do not quite tangle their limbs together, but their arms brush. It is... comfortable, Zayn supposes. He turns so that he can look at Nalé Liam and is surprised by how close their faces are, arranged like this. Liam’s already staring at him, as he almost always seems to be whenever Zayn looks at him. It warms Zayn.

Sleep drags at Zayn’s eyelids, and he cannot fight it. His blinks grow longer and longer, until he gives up altogether and lets his eyes shut. His body is already slightly aching, and he knows that he will hurt tomorrow. He feels curiously detached from it, the evening blurring until all he remembers are the vaguest feelings, fear, anticipation, and surprising pleasure.

In the moment before his mind tips firmly into sleep, Zayn presses his arm against Liam, feeling the edge of the Nalé’s leather cuff. He falls asleep feeling calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yn - yes  
> Dazun - come  
> Anshiayn - beautiful  
> Ta - you  
> Zayn ez ta - Zayn is you  
> Ne - me  
> Unte nubemiem - until we meet again  
> Core - the language of Kiza  
> Jak - stop  
> Gunsuim - many thanks  
> pez tar kater - for your son  
> E gav saishi pez hic - I will care for him  
> Frzeyn ez tar - Fraeyn is yours  
> Zayn'm - Zayn's  
> Nk - no  
> E gav nkd - I will not


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this update took a ridiculous amount of time, and I am so sorry for that. But I would like to remind everyone again that I am not updating on a regular schedule here, and I will make no promises about updates. I might, on occasion, offer guesses about when I will be updating, but it is all just guesswork. My life does not allow for a lot of planning at the moment, but please know that I am working on this fic as much and as often as I can. Thank you for being so patient with me.
> 
> Also this chapter is shorter than the others because it turned into a monster, so I split it in half.
> 
> Notes on the chapter:  
> -some mild language  
> -some mild violence  
> \----(this violence could be considered domestic but it is largely unintentional and non-threatening. please read with care).  
> -translations at the end

When Zayn was very young, he accompanied his father to Karva, on the sea. The endless expanse of water that surrounded the city charmed Zayn’s child mind, and he spent the entirety of the trip as close to the swells as he could. Even at so tender an age, Zayn was spellbound by the pure, natural power of the crashing waves alongside Karva’s cliffs, the depths and secrets it could hold, and when his father announced their departure, Zayn had stated imperiously that he would take the sea with him. He wished his city to exist on the edge of such power, to hold it at their command as Zayn would one day hold his city. Zayn has no clear memory of what transpired after his declaration, though often his mother would be reduced to tears telling of Zayn throwing a tantrum that the sea could not be his, but Zayn does remember looking at the sea and desiring its power.

It is a desire he has not grown out of, Zayn acknowledges now to himself with a certain bitterness.

Soft grass parts ahead of him, pushed aside under the relentless press of the Nakin, which snakes through the grasslands in small, organized columns. Zayn rides at the back of the procession, as he has since the Nakin left Hal, forced to watch the strength of the Nakizi flow in front of him, outside of his reach.

And it is, without doubt, outside of his reach. Zayn is nothing here, and with every passing day, he suspects he will always be nothing. Ignored at the end of the Nakin’s trail, ignored when he enters the camp as it springs to life every night, and worse, ignored by his husband.

Zayn has not seen Nalé Liam since their wedding night, and the knowledge sits heavy and bitter in the back of his throat. Whatever he had thought might have transpired between them that night, all those hopes were dashed the morning after, when he awoke alone in his tent to the sounds of the camp dispersing around him. Fear, true and terrible, had gripped him that he was being left behind, that somehow he had displeased the Nalé and the terms of their arrangement were no longer. His fingers had found his leather cuff and twisted in it anxiously, bare shoulders curved against the morning chill, and that was how Niall had found him.

Glancing to his side now where Niall rides, Zayn’s cheeks still burn at the pitiful picture he must have made that morning, how young he must have seemed when he recoiled at Niall’s entrance. Surprise is his only defense, and he was surprised, for he had not expected to see anyone enter his tent, and hardly someone like Niall besides.

Niall is not Nakizi, after all.

_Well not by blood,_ Zayn hastily corrects himself, gazing at the way Niall rides beside him now with ease, the gait of his horse hardly moving his lax body. His pale skin does not burn from the sun, not the way Zayn’s does, though it too is exposed by the riding leathers they both now wear. Niall wears his with the same ease he rides with, while Zayn struggles to feel clothed. It is obvious to any who look, which of the two belongs with the Nakin, and despite his similar coloring, Zayn is not that one.

He has yet to ask Niall how he ended up among the Nakizi, how he found himself close enough to the Nalé to be assigned guard duty to his husband, but he wishes to. Niall’s shock of blonde hair and bright blue eyes speak of an Eastern birthplace, beyond the Great Forest, where the Nakizi have never had cause to travel. In truth, Zayn thinks Niall may be from the Northern country of Braven, his Core just slightly accented.

“Zayn?” Niall has noticed his attention. “Do you require something?” A slight smile turns Niall’s lips up, and Zayn aches with loneliness at the kind gesture, so unused to it already.

“No,” he answers immediately, though his back aches from riding. Blisters continue to form and burst on his hands from the reigns of the horse he rides, and the ache from his wedding night only began to fade days ago. The travel is rough on Zayn, and even the furs Niall offered to help cushion his seat do little to help Zayn’s unaccustomed body. They still have days left though, he knows, until they will reach Albin, the next stop on the Nakin’s trade route.

At Niall’s raised eyebrow, Zayn corrects himself, “Nk.” The word still trips off his tongue clumsily, but Niall nods in satisfaction regardless. Zayn appreciates the effort Niall extends in teaching him Nakizi, but he does not understand the purpose. He speaks to no one here save Niall, who speaks Core just as well. Even the guard assigned to Zayn, a group of some five men close to Zayn’s own age, never speak to him. Zayn has never been so alone.

He had thought, foolishly he realizes, that marrying the Nalé would afford him the same respect and station as his husband, the way it would have been in Hal, had Zayn married there. But the Nakizi do not assign power the same way, and respect is a word Zayn has not heard a direct translation for in their tongue.

Zayn has heard other words though, and his shoulders hunch in remembrance.

King Yaser had admitted that some Nakizi had not seen the union favorable, but Zayn thinks his father underestimated how many those men numbered. Since the moment Zayn had left his wedding tent that first morning, the Nakizi have been watching him. Several men had jeered at Zayn’s tousled appearance, whistling and shouting words that Zayn hardly needs a translation for. They continue to mock every night as Zayn makes his way to the Nalé’s tent, despite the Nalé’s failure to also appear. He is not sure which would be worse, the Nakizi viewing him as nothing more than a bed slave or knowing that his husband does not even desire him in that way, and so he never dares acknowledge the calls.

No one else does either. Though his guard surrounds him at all times, sleeping in tents around his own, they never shout back, and Niall ignores most of the calls, being absent for the worst times. Zayn thinks occasionally of asking him for a translation, but he can imagine the insults well enough. Something about his city breeding, he thinks, and probably, whore. Insults, he’s found, do not differ much across class and race lines. He knows what he looks like, this soft prince with no killing bands, married off to a warrior leader. _Trophy bride_ , he thinks. It is a term from Hal, when a wealthy man marries a younger, and prettier, girl, usually from a lower class. It is ironically, the type of bride he was avoiding.

His horse whinnies suddenly, loud and clear, and Zayn looks skyward instantly, heart pounding. One hand drops down to pet through his horse’s mane – a beautiful mare that Zayn had chosen his third day of riding – but Zayn’s eyes dare not leave the expanse of wide blue sky. He had chosen this mare for a very particular reason, a quirk of the beast’s personality he had noticed. The mare whinnies whenever the dragons approach.

Sure enough, he spots twin shadows, growing larger and larger, until all at once they dissolve into distinctive shapes. The great grey dragon, Ossium, leads Fraeyn in a dive above the column. Several Nakizi hunch lower in their seats atop their own horses, but Zayn does not. He lives for these rare glances of the dragons, especially his dragon.

As though sensing his presence, Fraeyn glides directly over Zayn, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she huffs. Zayn closes his eyes in the sudden warmth of her breath, and when he opens them again, the two dragons are pulling up higher once more. Ossium continues to outrace Fraeyn, but Zayn notes with pride that his red dragon does not give up, following the grey beast until they both disappear beyond the stretch of clouds before the procession.

“Where do they go?” he finds himself asking out loud for the first time, though the question has been on his mind since the first day when he realized just how much freedom the beasts truly have. They are not restrained, and during the day, they fly ahead of the Nakizi or behind, travelling wherever they please. Zayn has noticed that Fraeyn stays closest, Ossium often not far from her though there are days where he does not see the Nalé’s large dragon.

Niall draws up closer to Zayn, watching the edge of the horizon where the dragons disappeared as well. “Probably off to find Xohen, wherever that beast’s hidden away today.”

“Xohen?” Zayn echoes, uncertain at the unfamiliar name.

“Louis’s dragon.”

Zayn gapes. “What?”

Niall looks at him, amused. “Haven’t met him yet? Can’t say I’m surprised. That dragon’s more snake than anything, gods know.”

“There’s another dragon?”

Niall’s head tilts, shaggy blonde hair falling around his face. One of his arms flexes where his hand is wrapped loosely around his reins, emphasizing the one stark killing band wrapped just above his elbow. Zayn shrinks back a bit, suddenly recalling that this man, though his guard, is still a Nakizi, and marked as a warrior as well.

But Niall only looks on with continued amusement, a semi-permanent expression on his face. “Yes. We’ve got the three full grown ones now, and Harry will hatch more once we reach Cazikan. Winter’s the season for it, did you know?”

“No,” Zayn looks down at his fingers to hide his expression. His fingers twist in his leather band once more, a habit he’s seemed to pick up. “We – Hal that is, had only heard of two dragons. We did not know that you had, or will have, more.”

“Ah, well that would be Ossium and Xohen, you knew about. They’re the oldest, born three winters or so ago, if I’m remembering correctly. Must have been though; it was right after the Nalé had died.”

_Liam’s father,_ Zayn thinks. He vaguely remembers the man, tall and broad, loud and with a rounded belly the last Zayn had seen him. Zayn also remembers the large dragon which had accompanied the Nakin during his childhood, one which he had never seen up close but had always assumed belonged to the Nalé. He had also assumed that dragon was Ossium, now Liam’s, but Niall tells otherwise.

“Fraeyn was born last winter,” Niall continues, rambling on. It is a habit he is prone to, and one that Zayn is grateful for. Not only does it break up the silence, but it is the most Zayn has ever learned about the Nakizi. However Niall came to be among this Nakin, he has clearly lived among them for many years. Zayn feels immeasurably grateful for his presence. “Her birthmates both died though. Harry was devastated.”

“Birthmates?” Zayn prods, while thinking of the curly-haired man he had met briefly at his wedding. Harry had assisted with the dragons then, but Zayn had not realized it was his duty. He wonders at how such a seemingly young, happy boy earned that right. “They are born more than one at a time?”

“Dragons are not meant to live alone,” Niall answers, his voice carrying the strength of conviction. “They require other dragons to thrive, and a bond with a rider of course. If they’re left on their own for too long, they go funny.”

Zayn’s mouth runs dry. “Mad?”

“Something like,” Niall shrugs. “Most of them take off before they do any damage. Clever beasts.”

 “Take off where?”

Niall shrugs once more, unbothered. It is yet another facet of his personality Zayn has observed over the long days. “No one really knows. I imagine it’s where the rest go, once their riders die. Dragons live for decades, centuries maybe, after all, but humans do not. When a rider dies, the dragon leaves, and wherever they go, they never come back. That’s why the Nalé had Ossium hatched after his da’s dragon left. Could hardly be the Nakin aez Draza without a dragon, and the old Nalé’s dragon was the last one at the time.”

The story sounds like something of myth, to Zayn, but he supposes dragons are from myth. He wonders at the bond between dragon and rider, the one he is meant to have with Fraeyn, that it could be strong enough to exile the dragons upon the riders’ deaths. He wonders at beasts that clever. He wonders at much.

“And how many did he hatch with Ossium then?” Zayn asks, thinking of Louis’s mysterious dragon and wondering if yet more hide in the mass of the Nakin. After all, this tribe alone is too large for him to truly comprehend, the camp spreading out like a city every night.

“Xohen, and another,” Niall answers promptly, bright eyes drifting away from Zayn’s. “The other disappeared right before last winter, which is why the Nalé asked Harry to hatch three more.”

“Why does he wish more than two?” Zayn cannot imagine wishing for five dragons to control, feed, and watch. He already struggles to understand how Fraeyn is meant to be his, when his only interactions with her this past fortnight have been watching her fly.

 "Because of the war, of course,” Niall studies Zayn, focused once more. The shift in his character is subtle, but Zayn has witnessed it a handful of times. He had wondered at first, how this outsider with a gentle and easy nature became close to the fiercest Nalé, but moments like these hint at something intelligent beneath Niall’s surface. Zayn does not question Niall’s place at Nalé Liam’s side any longer. “I would have thought you’d understand that, Prince.”

Zayn’s face colors at the use of his old title. The reminder of his old life is harsh, though he doubts Niall intends it to be, but Niall is right. Zayn should have suspected the war with Banshia would affect the Nakizi to the same extent it affected Hal. If Banshia conquers all of the cities after all, the Nakizi will undoubtedly be next. “Of course,” he echoes, voice unintentionally colder.

Niall hums, letting silence settle between them once more.

Questions about the dragons dance around his head, but Zayn dares not give voice to any of them. Even Niall, though good-natured, does not trust him, as made apparent by his reference to Zayn’s previous station. Zayn is an outsider, and as the Nakin continues through the Grasslands, Zayn thinks he might always be.

* * *

 

“Pukuin.”

Zayn’s shoulders tense, making his arms ache further as he pauses in lifting the saddle from his mare. The voice is not familiar, but the word certainly is. Inhaling deeply, Zayn pulls the saddle from his mare’s back and places it in the waiting arms of one of his guard. The young Nakizi boy will not meet his eyes, but Zayn expected no less. He still does not know the meaning of the word, but he has noticed how none of his guards – the men Niall refers to as his vulkezi – will look at him or the speaker when the word is uttered. Zayn takes the opportunity to glance out of the corner of his eye at the Nakizi men who have approached. Just as he thought, he does not recognize the speaker, but his stomach sinks when he does recognize one among them.

 Louis stares stoically at Zayn, nothing in his expression.

Zayn willfully ignores the men and gestures for the young guard to take Zayn’s saddle into the Nalé’s tent, where Zayn continues to bed at night despite the Nalé apparently bedding elsewhere. He has not set eyes on Liam in over a fortnight now, but he wishes suddenly that Liam stood beside him.

Pushing aside wistful thoughts, Zayn nudges his young guard’s hand, prompting him to continue to the tent. “Gunsuim, Eli,” he murmurs quietly. The boy nods and ducks away without fight, and Zayn swallows down his bitterness. The boy owes him no loyalty, he supposes.

Zayn turns toward the men and straightens his back, wishing Niall had not disappeared; they never dare call him names like this when Niall is near enough to hear. Niall is somewhere in the maze of tents though, and Zayn faces these men alone. He could greet them, he has learned enough Nakizi to do so, but he does not.

The Nakizi man who spoke grins nastily at him. “Pukuin hi cuge izhe.”

The other men chortle, and Louis’s face hardens into disgust. “Nk,” he snaps, glaring at Zayn. “Hi gev nkd izhe.”

Zayn grits his teeth, insults translating in intent if not into the words themselves, but he does not say anything in return. He would not even if he could speak Nakizi. His guard is scattered currently, arranging their belongings and beginning preparations for the morning. They are days from Albin, and as the city draws nearer, Niall is required at the Nalé’s side more frequently. Zayn is alone and defenseless, and though it wounds his pride to admit as much, he will not risk his life.

“Ez hi neez aez Nalé,” Louis continues, tilting his arrogant chin upward. Zayn thinks his blue eyes look cold.

“Neez,” the Nakizi man who originally spoke echoes. His dark brown eyes gleam in comparison to Louis’s, bright with something like glee. Zayn recoils on instinct, recognizing the tinge of madness. He has seen it in the face of men about to riot, men on trial, men condemned. “Neez aez Nalé, neez aez nem.”

The men erupt into laughter again, Louis’s mouth turning upward in a smirk, and Zayn is ready to admit defeat. He takes one step backward, preparing to run if he must like a coward, when another voice splits the tense air.

“Louis!”

Louis turns, smirk falling before it could fully form.

Niall shoves into the pack of men, glaring at Louis and heedless of the others. A stream of Nakizi flows off his tongue, fast and deadly as a whip. Zayn understands very little of it, despite his continued lessons with Niall, but he hears clearly when Niall brings up the Nalé. The men all frown, and Louis shoves forward. Niall steps in front of Zayn and does not retreat.

“Ta az vulkeyun aez Nalé,” Niall snaps. “Vulkeyun, Louis. Hi ez Nalé’m. Hi ez Liam’m.”

“Hi ez nkd Liam’m!” Louis shouts back, enraged suddenly. His eyes find Zayn, and the anger in them surpasses mere rage. Louis hates him; Zayn can see it. “Ta az pukuin, un neez! Ta az nkd Nakizi!”

“Jak!” With his outburst, Niall shoves Louis back and his pale hand falls to the pommel of his sword. Zayn gapes at the threatening move, but Louis merely sneers at Niall. “Kezh, Louis,” Niall continues, unwavering. “Dek.”

Louis takes a step back but does not look away from Zayn. “Ta giv –”

“Dek!” Niall shouts, cutting off whatever insult Louis planned to hurl at Zayn.

Louis leaves, the other men following him without comment, though the original speaker leers back at Zayn.

Zayn does not breathe again until they disappear from his sight, and then he sags. His hands shake as he curls them into fists, and tears of frustration bead in his eyes.   

“Zayn,” Niall calls, voice hesitant.

“Nk,” Zayn replies, Nakizi rolling off his tongue with ease for once. “Leave it alone, Niall.”

“How often does this happen?” Niall presses. “Zayn you should have told me they were this aggressive. I would have –”

 “What?” Zayn snaps, shame burning hot and unpleasant in his belly. He hates that he cannot defend himself. He hates that he is a coward. He hates them, all of them, all of these Nakizi who mock and mistreat him. He lifts his chin up, blinking the tears away and ignoring Niall’s concern. He understood enough of what Niall said in his defense. Liam’m, he’d said – Liam’s. He views Zayn as Liam’s property, and the knowledge aches along Zayn’s bent spine. He had thought that Niall at least would be a friend, but he has no use for friends who think of him as a possession.

“What does pukuin mean?” Zayn asks, changing his question. He does not care to know what Niall would have done if he had known about the name calling. Zayn is not a child, and he can handle himself.

Niall hesitates, visibly, and Zayn’s irritation grows.

“What does it mean?” he grits out.

“City-scum,” Niall translates. “It is a word for –”

Zayn laughs, bitter and dark. It is not even personal then. They do not hate Zayn for himself, but for where he comes from. “For my kind,” he finishes Niall’s sentence.

Niall tries to say something more, but Zayn is suddenly desperately tired. His shoulders ache, his thighs throb, and he is exhausted.

“I do not care,” he says in response to whatever Niall is attempting to convey. Zayn gazes out over the camp filled with thousands of strangers who hate him on sight alone. He thinks of his guard, forced to accompany him, he thinks of the men, jeering at him, and he thinks of his husband, ignoring Zayn’s existence. He thinks of all of this, and then he pushes it all away. “I do not care at all,” his voice sounds hollow to his own ears, but the statement does not ring false.

Zayn turns from the Nakin, from the Nakizi, from the Nalé, wherever he is. His tent surrounds him, the only place he can call home, the only place he will ever call home again, and Zayn lets the numbness engulf him completely. 

* * *

 

The remaining days to Albin pass uneventfully. Zayn sits astride his mare and does not look up from his hands unless Fraeyn flies overhead. Only the sight of the red dragon or the view of the world around him offer him any relief. Fraeyn sparks something bright and hot inside of his heart, awakening a childlike wonder. Likewise the Grasslands which part before the Nakin capture his mind. Zayn’s entire world had been Hal, and he had accepted that it would always be. Unlike Waliyha, who dreams of far off lands and wide seas, Zayn had thought himself content in his city. Looking at the strands of grass, ranging from the bright green of an emerald to the almost blue hue of Hal’s Bask River, Zayn knows that he was wrong. The world opens up around him anew, and he is beyond grateful for it. Without this newfound love, he does not know how he would stand the passing days.

He refuses to converse with Niall, and he does not meet the eyes of any of his guard. He will not pretend friendship as they do with him. He begins carrying his own saddle, emptying his own bathwater in the mornings, and cooking as much of his own meals as he can. He will not allow them to serve him when they do not respect him.

By the time they make camp outside of Albin’s walls days later, Zayn’s guards have begun to leave him once the tent is up and the minimum done to make it habitable. Only Niall continues to linger with Zayn throughout the evenings, as soon as he finishes whatever report he gives the Nalé, and Zayn is certain it _is_ a report. No other reason exists for Niall’s nightly disappearances. If he wished to torture himself, he might wonder what the man possibly reports to the Nalé about the husband he abandoned, but Zayn crushes any of that curiosity. He will not care.

Niall still attempts to speak with him, but Zayn never responds. False friendship and spying do not endear him to the pale man, and he no longer cares about the strange bond between Niall and the Nalé. He will endure Niall’s presence if he must, but he will do no more.

When the tent flap opens the night before the Nakin will enter Albin, as Zayn finishes his meal, he glances up expecting to see Niall. He tenses when his eyes meet warm brown eyes instead.

The Nalé says nothing as he steps into the tent, moving aside so that Niall and then Louis can follow him in. If Niall’s presence might have relaxed Zayn, Louis’s presence only makes him tense further. He avoids looking at the Nakizi warrior, afraid his glare might give him away. He does not know how the Nalé would react if he knew that Zayn loathes his right hand, his vulkeyun – whatever the word means.

Zayn still does not understand the relationship between the two men, but he knows what familiarity looks like. Louis rides beside Liam almost constantly, and no other Nakizi speaks to the Nalé the way Louis does. Whatever their bond, it runs deep. Zayn’s stomach turns sour at the implications, and he rises as gracefully as he can with his empty plate in hand. Crossing to the basin full of cold washing water, Zayn can feel three pairs of eyes along his spine. He knows that he should have risen for his husband, should have bowed his head, but the thought burns in his gut. He struggles to behave respectfully toward a man who ignores his existence.

Silence settles over the tent as Zayn scrubs his plate. When he is done, plate set aside to dry and basin emptied so it can be filled with warm water in the morning for his bath, none of the men have yet spoken. Zayn bites the inside of his lip, stubbornness demanding he not speak first, but his upbringing wins out.

“Nalé,” he ducks his head, deferential by default. He nods at Niall and refuses to so much as look at Louis.

The Nalé bows his head in turn but says nothing. He studies Zayn, eyes lingering on his wrist. Zayn fidgets when he realizes that the Nalé looks at his wedding cuff. Despite Liam’s continued absence and silence, Zayn has taken care of the cuff. He oils it nearly every night, checking the braids for fraying almost obsessively. His fingers find and play with it frequently, and Zayn can admit to himself that the band has become a comfort to him.

His eyes seek out Liam’s wrist, and he nearly sighs in relief when he sees his own cuff in place. He had not realized its disappearance was something he feared, but even though it does not gleam as his own does, the fact that Liam still wears it calms something jagged inside of Zayn. At the very least, it means his marriage, and the alliance, still exist.

The Nalé begins speaking, voice low and rumbling, but the words mean nothing to Zayn. His lessons with Niall have halted, and even if they had not, he would be nowhere near fluent in the Nakizi tongue.

“Tomorrow we will enter Albin,” Niall’s voice snags Zayn’s attention. The blonde man meets his gaze, a small, unhappy twist to his lips as he translates. “We will greet the King and then trade in the marketplace. You will stand by my side.”

Zayn’s heart thuds heavy inside his chest, and he fights to keep himself from gaping at his husband. The words are not what he was expecting, not as the first words from his husband in weeks, and not regarding the events the next day. He had not believed he would enter Albin. Instead, he had thought to remain behind, left to his own devices as always.

His thoughts turn, immediately, to the sprawling city, so similar to his own. Albin and Hal are called the sister cities, so alike are they, and it is not by coincidence that Zayn’s sister, Doniya, had married a lord from Albin. The ruling families are close, and the cities are unofficial allies. Zayn had seen King Alerick and his daughter Aliss nearly every year of his life, on their spring sojourns which King Alerick had a particular fondness for.

The opportunity to finally gaze upon his sister city would normally number among Zayn’s greatest wishes, but now the idea only twists his gut. For he would not be entering Albin tomorrow as himself, as Prince Zayn, heir to Hal and its provinces. He would be entering it as a trophy bride to the bloodthirsty Nalé of the Dragon Nakin. He would be entering it as property.

 “No,” he shakes his head adamantly, beseeching eyes seeking out Niall, whose own eyes widen at the denial. “I will not. Niall, tell him I will not go.”

Niall’s hesitation is obvious, but slowly, Nakizi words slip from between his lips. Zayn watches their impact on the Nalé, whose empty expression grows stony.

He snaps something back, furious brown eyes slipping from Zayn’s face to Niall’s.

The downturned line of Niall’s lips grows more pronounced, but he dutifully translates. “It is not your choice. You will enter the city at Liam’s side, and you will take your rightful place as his husband.”

“His husband?” Zayn nearly laughs as something shifts within him. Bitterness floods him at the title. Niall flinches, worry sneaking into his eyes, but Zayn ignores him. He stares at the Nalé, the man he had married, the man who had ignored him every moment since. “Husband?” he demands. “Is that what I am? Not pukuin? Not – what was that other word Niall? The one they all call me.”

“Zayn –” Niall’s voice teeters on the edge between warning and worry, but Zayn is beyond his fear now.

He stares the Nalé down, rash anger and hurt flaring in his belly. “Pukuin,” he snaps. “Pukuin and neez, that’s what I am. Not your husband. Not to them.”

The Nalé had frowned at the mention of the first word, but he jolts at the sound of the second. His face slides from a mask to pure rage, and in one long stride he is before Zayn. Nakizi flies off his tongue as one great hand snatches Zayn’s wrist. Zayn recoils, but he cannot go far, not as he is. The Nalé’s fingers dig almost painfully into his braided leather cuff as he shakes Zayn’s arm and makes demands Zayn cannot understand.

The suddenness of it all throws Zayn so off balance that he cannot react. His arm flops limply in the Nalé’s hold, and his throat clicks as he swallows against fear.

 “Liam!” Niall’s voice cracks across the space, and the Nalé growls back at him, asking the same question over and over and ignoring everything Niall says. Niall raises his hands up, pale skin made paler by his fear, fear which threatens to overwhelm Zayn.

Worried blue eyes find Zayn’s. “He wishes to know who has called you these names.”

Even as fearful as he suddenly is, Zayn knows better. Telling Liam which men have called him such will give him nothing but more trouble. “Niall,” his voice nearly breaks, begging as he tugs at his wrist. He cannot meet the Nalé’s fierce gaze. “Niall, please, he’s – I cannot. Tell him to let me go.”

Worry and anger fight in Niall’s voice as he answers, “Zayn, you must tell him. He will not let it go, now that he knows. Tell him.”

“No,” Zayn finally dares to meet the Nalé’s brown eyes, alight with anger. It is the first time he truly sees a Nalé when he looks at the man. This man before him is undoubtedly a man who fought and killed for his title, who conquers any whom challenge him. He is a warrior.

But still, Zayn defies him. “No. Nk, Nalé. I cannot.”

The Nalé growls something back, and Zayn does not listen to the translation that Niall quietly offers. He understands his husband’s displeasure well enough. Unbidden, Zayn’s eyes slide over the Nalé’s shoulder to where Louis stands, still, beside the tent flaps. Zayn does not know him well enough to read his expression, but he catches the way the man’s eyes widen.

Zayn’s gaze returns quickly to the Nalé, but not quickly enough to go unnoticed. His husband has turned to stone once more. “Louis,” he voices, and Zayn does not know if it is a question for him or a command for the man he names, so he says nothing.

The Nalé releases him, and Zayn lets his eyes drop to the worn dirt floor. Silence envelopes the tent for a moment, but Zayn refuses to look up and watch whatever is happening between the other men. He does not care to know on whose side his husband will fall; he thinks he knows.

After a moment, the Nalé speaks again, and Niall’s voice is stilted when he translates for Zayn, “We will enter Albin together tomorrow. You will ride beside me as we greet the King, and you will attend my meeting. When we trade, you will be free to wander, but you will stay with your guard while in the city.”

Zayn nods, fight gone from him, until Niall adds, “Louis will also guard you.”

“What?” Zayn stares at Niall, who nods to where Louis and Liam stare at each other. Louis’s face is twisted in anger, but Liam is unmoved. Zayn is not surprised when Louis breaks, jerking his head in a nod. He turns on his heel and stomps from the tent immediately afterward, leaving the Nalé staring at the tent door in resigned anger. His broad shoulders straighten to a rigid degree, but his brown eyes look dull.

“Niall –” Zayn tries.

“Do not speak,” Niall cuts him off quickly. “Accept this Zayn. The Nalé commands it.”

Nalé Liam glances at Zayn at the mention of his title, and Zayn stares back. He does not understand what has happened, or how he has given in so quickly, but he can feel himself giving into this man yet again.

“Yn,” he breathes, ducking his head. “Yes, I will do as he asks.”

The Nalé’s finger appears suddenly underneath Zayn’s chin, tipping his head up with a gentleness Zayn remembers from his wedding night. He allows the motion out of surprise, until he faces those brown eyes once more.

“Ta az nen zishun,” the Nalé tells him. “Nkd pukuin. Nkd un neez. Zishun.”

Zayn nods, though he understand little. It is enough to know that his husband rejects the insults. With a gentle swipe of his fingers along the underside of Zayn’s chin, the same motion Zayn has witnessed the Nalé perform on his horse, the man leaves their tent.

When the flaps swish shut behind him, Zayn sinks slowly to his knees. He regulates his breathing, counting in and out as he was taught in worship. He does not thank the gods of Kiza now though, digging his fingers into the hard packed dirt of the earth. He thinks of nothing but the draw of breath into and out of his chest, because to invite thought is to invite worry and fear and anger.

“Zayn –” Niall’s pale hand reaches for his shoulder out of the corner of Zayn’s eye.

“Do not,” he bites out, “touch me.” The hand halts and then retreats. Zayn sighs, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment, then another. When he opens his eyes once more, he glares at the ground before him, where the Nalé had stood. “He does not have to acknowledge me,” Zayn states, voice shaking with repressed rage. “But he will never lay a hand on me in anger again.”

“He did not mean –”

“I do not care what he meant!” His voice cracks through the air. “I have seen what men do to their wives when they do not _mean_ to. I will not allow myself to fall into that situation.”

“Liam would never strike you. His anger was not aimed at you.”

Zayn knows. He understands that the Nalé’s grip on his wrist was not an aggressive or intimidating move, but the sting of it lingers regardless. He will not set an example of allowing himself to be hurt, unintentionally or not. If he allows it at all, he opens the door for further physicality, and Zayn is achingly aware that he is in no position to escape. He has no one to help him, so he will not risk it, not even if he believes the Nalé would not abuse him.

“You will tell him that he will not lay a hand on me in such a way again,” Zayn explains.

“I will,” Niall agrees after a moment. “But you should understand one thing, Zayn. I have known the Nalé since we were young, and he was once gentle. He has no place for gentleness now. He cannot afford to.”

Unbidden, Zayn thinks of Liam’s fingers gentle around his hips, gentle inside of him, gentle when they tied his leather cuff. He thinks of Liam’s fingers gentle tonight, just before he left. Perhaps the Nalé cannot afford gentleness, but he has been gentle with Zayn before. Zayn is not certain what that means, but he dismisses it now.

Niall moves around him, exiting the tent and leaving Zayn for the night.

 “Niall,” Zayn calls before he can depart. When Niall hesitates obligingly, Zayn meets his eyes. “What does that word mean? Zishun?”

Niall’s grin is fleeting but there. “Husband. It means husband.”

He backs out before Zayn can respond, and Zayn releases a gust of air.

He digs his fingers deeper into the dirt below him and acknowledges his growing confusion.

He does not understand how he is meant to love a man who can be so gentle with him but so dismissive, so aggressive but so calm, so commanding but so deferential. He does not understand a man with two sides.

_But then,_ he thinks wryly. _This marriage was never about understanding. It was never about love._

So then, he is the fool, for continuing to wish it could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulkezi - honor guard for the Nale and family  
> Pukuin hi cuge izhe - city-scum thinks he belongs  
> Hi gav nkd izhe - he does not belong  
> Ez hi neez aez Nale - he is the whore of the Nale  
> Neez aez nem - whore of mine  
> Hi ez Nale'm/Liam'm - he is the Nale's/Liam's  
> Ta az pukuin, un neez - you are city-scum, a whore  
> Ta az nkd Nakizi - you are not Nakizi  
> Kezh - enough  
> Dek - go
> 
> **as always, any words left out are probably intentionally left out so I don't spoil anything but please feel free to ask


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Yes, I know, this update took forever again. I am sorry, but my job gets really hectic around the holidays. That probably means the next one will take a bit as well. Thank you all for still reading!
> 
> Warnings on this chapter:  
> -general violence, nongraphic

Albin’s walls rise above the grasses long before the Nakizi reach the City, the sight of them stirring up nostalgia in Zayn so violent he nearly chokes on it. If it were not for the faint discoloration – from the strands of grass that Albin weaves into the clay of its bricks – Zayn could believe he rode towards his home once more. He wishes for the dark brown bricks of his home, for the cool temples there where he could worship Kiza as a God, for supplying food and shelter, heart and home.

He does not feel worshipful now, when heart and home feel a dream out of his reach.

The sun continues to rise, beating down on the contingent of Nakizi. They set out that morning before the sun had crested the land, as those who were staying behind bid them farewell. Along with him, Nalé Liam, and their personal guards, three dozen warriors accompanied the traders and makers of the Nakin. It was a larger group than Zayn had expected, and he had stood outside of the groups of people, watching the wagons loaded and the men arranged.

The Nalé had arranged the parade of men, and Zayn had watched his husband, seeing a leader once more. His strong arms had motioned men into their places, organizing the wagons in a configuration Zayn did not understand. His confusion had only grown when Nalé Liam had appeared at his side, large hand landing firmly on Zayn’s shoulder and compelling Zayn to remain beside him. It was the first time Liam had spent more than a moment near Zayn since they had departed Hal, and Zayn was not the only one to notice. Many eyes had lingered on them that morning, as Liam kept Zayn close.

More surprising, however, was the moment when the Nalé had urged Zayn toward the center of the contingent, where his mare already awaited him. Liam had mounted up beside Zayn, their guards falling into a loose circle about them. Recalling Liam’s position at the head of the Nakizi when they had entered Hal, Zayn did not understand why his husband remained at his side, but remain he has. Even now, with Albin’s open gate appearing before them, the Nalé rides smoothly beside Zayn, untroubled.

Riding in the center of the group is a protection that Zayn would ordinarily not mind, but he finds himself minding this morning. For once, he would rather be at the rear.

Glancing back now, Zayn again sees the reason why. Ossium and Fraeyn walk behind the contingent.

When they had landed that morning, Zayn had found himself at Fraeyn’s side within moments, his eager hands seeking out her smooth scales. Preening under Zayn’s touch, Fraeyn had snorted out smoke over his shoulders, wrapping him in warmth. He had heard the jeers of some of the Nakizi men and knew they mocked him for bonding a female dragon – as though the gender of a _dragon_ matters – but he paid it no mind.

Fraeyn, as though sensing Zayn’s gaze, meets his eye above the heads of the Nakizi and huffs out smoke. Zayn smiles back and wishes he could touch her, just once more before entering Albin. It would calm him.

Allowing Liam to lead him away from Fraeyn had been hard, but Zayn had been wary of making a display in front of so many of the Nakizi. With Liam still beside him, glancing periodically over as though to check on Zayn, he thinks it was the right decision. No matter Liam’s motivations for staying beside him – showing off his trophy bride chiefly among them, Zayn suspects – Zayn finds himself grateful for Liam’s presence as the gates of Albin grow ever closer.

The weight of hundreds of eyes already press up on his shoulders, and Zayn is certain that many will come to watch the Nakizi enter. Unlike Hal, Albin maintained their trade with the Nakizi, and their willingness to allow the dragons entrance to their City speaks of a better agreement between the citizens and the Nakizi.

In truth, Zayn does not know what to expect. His stomach twists as the contingent suddenly shifts around them. Riders pull up, tightening the group. The leading warriors rein in until they are several deep just in front of the Nalé and their guards. Zayn’s own guards ride close enough to touch on one side of him, Liam’s on the other side of him. The wagons which follow are flanked by Nakizi on either side as well, with only Fraeyn and Ossium at the back. The movement is fluid, speaking of practice.

Guards at the gate give a shout when the Nakizi exit the Grasslands, entering the cleared space around Albin. Zayn’s heart thrums, and he reminds himself that he is hardly to be recognized. Despite his many stays in Albin, he does not believe the people will know him on sight. He looks too different. His hair has grown into disarray, nearly reaching the preferred length of the Nakizi, and his skin, too, has darkened finally in the sun so that he bears the burnished copper tone of his husband’s people. In leathers and astride his mare, Zayn does not look different from the other Nakizi.

A hand on his thigh startles him as the Nakizi at the head of the column shout a greeting back before disappearing inside the gate. When he looks over, Liam looks back at him. His face is soft, and it is hard to reconcile this man with the man in his tent the night before or the man who organized his men this morning.

“Sashuin a Albin, Zayn,” he speaks, nudging his chin toward the high walls just as they pass through the gate.

Zayn turns his eyes to the City as it opens up before them, and his breath leaves him in a long stream. _Welcome to Albin,_ he thinks, and indeed they are welcome.

People line the streets, crowding the edges between building and path. A happy buzz and shouts echo through the clay brick buildings, and flowers fly through the air. Zayn gapes as he realizes that the people throw them to the Nakizi, a gesture he recognizes as a soldier’s welcome. The Nakizi ignore it, used to it perhaps, and move onward. Zayn knows immediately when the dragons finally enter, a hush and then a rush of noise enveloping the people. It reminds him of celebrations in Hal, feasts and holidays and nothing like how they greeted the Nakizi.

 Zayn thinks of his father’s decision to ban the Nakizi from Hal for so many years, and he knows it to have been a mistake. Watching the people of Albin embrace the Nakizi, he does not understand why the Nalé ever agreed to meet with King Yaser, why Liam has accepted Zayn into his Nakin, when clearly so many others are more welcoming.

As his gaze jumps from face to face in the crowd, child to elder and back, he sees joy rampant among them. Even the wariness is subdued underneath excitement, and he knows this is what trading ought to be. These people to not recoil in fear, not even from the dragons. These people respect the Nakizi, and these people would make a better ally.

 The thought puts a different sort of unease in Zayn’s gut.

“Is it always like this?” he cannot help but ask aloud.

“For the most part,” Niall answers from beside him. Zayn had not noticed him switch to Zayn’s side from Liam’s, but the blonde rides easily to his left. He grins back at the people, catching and keeping a few of the flowers. “In cities where we are welcome, our presence means new goods, new trades, new wealth. It also, of course, means entertainment as well.” He nods back, towards the dragons, and Zayn swivels his head to watch them.

Fraeyn and Ossium appear unbothered by the noise and commotion. They walk sedately behind the wagons, heads held high.

“They do not mind?”

Niall laughs. “Mind? No, the opposite really. They preen under the attention.”

Zayn nearly laughs as well when he looks closer at the two dragons. Their shoulders press back so their chests appear wide, and their wings, which have been folded at their sides all morning, spread out enough to reveal the delicate and beautiful webbing. They look resplendent, gleaming in the sun, and Zayn cannot fault the crowd their reaction. It is like seeing living myth walk along the street.

Fraeyn looks to Zayn, and he swears he hears laughter. A smile breaks across his face, mirroring his dragon’s pure joy.

As the procession continues steadily onward, winding through the streets with familiarity toward where Zayn remembers the castle to be, he finds himself sitting up straighter and enjoying himself. His fear is forgotten under the swell of the crowd’s joy, and their fixation on the dragons and the fierce warriors makes them blind to Zayn. When eyes do catch near him, they linger on his husband. Zayn is invisible among the Nakizi, and for the first time, he is grateful for it.

* * *

 

The castle in Albin is not gated off from the city. Zayn remembers this from his handful of visits, but every time it is something of a shock to him. He cannot imagine growing up without the comfort of the castle of Hal’s courtyards, the calm of the castle around him, separated from the city at large. He cannot imagine allowing any to walk up to the castle doors, only a handful of guards to stop them. He cannot imagine a city so open, and yet the evidence is all around him as the Nakizi ride up to the castle of Albin.

He finds himself wondering if perhaps King Alerick does not have it right, with this method of open rule, and then immediately feels like a traitor to his own blood for thinking so.

To distract himself, he takes in the high castle walls. Where Hal’s castle is built outward, a sprawling building only three floors high that feels mazelike once within, Albin’s castle is built upward. It juts into the sky, the tallest building by far, and it used to mesmerize Zayn as a child. He would journey to the top of the tallest tower with the Princess Aliss, and they would stick their arms outside of the thin windows there to touch the sky. Looking over his shoulder at the two dragons the Nakin has brought with them, Zayn feels his love of the castle fade, replaced by a desire to fly higher, on his dragon’s back. His childhood joy is also tempered by better knowledge of warfare, knowing that this tall castle only serves as an obvious target. If the Nakin aez Draza went to war with this city, it would be a simple thing for the beasts to fly at this castle and knock it to the ground.

As the Nakizi draw up to the castle steps, the riders fall back until Nalé Liam, Niall, Louis, and Zayn remain at the head of the contingent. The prominent position makes Zayn’s nerves flare, but he takes his cues from his husband, only reigning his mare to a stop when Liam halts his steed. The Nakizi flare out to the sides around them until they occupy nearly all the space surrounding the front of the castle.

The great castle door swing open and a parade of people exit. It is a grand showing, the King and his daughter and heir at the head of a column of soldiers and advisors, only distinguishable by the garments they wear. The armor of the Albin’s soldiers is bronze, mined from the deep caves just to the west of the city, and it shines in the high sun. It is a tradition which Zayn had previously admired, but now, surrounded by fierce warriors and on the brink of a war, Zayn can only find this decision foolish. A king who allows his soldiers to remain in subpar armor for the sake of tradition can only be a fool, but Zayn has never thought King Alerick a fool before.

The man himself strides forward with confidence, greying hair long and tangling beneath his circlet. Zayn fights his desire to shrink down and hide, though he understands with new clarity why the Nakizi have taken to remaining astride their horses when greeting the City Kings. As King Alerick and his retinue draw up to the edge of the stairs, Zayn finds the Nakizi at a height with the Albinians. If the Nakizi were to dismount, as would be custom for any others, they would be looking up at a king they did not serve. It is a cunning decision that the Nalé has instated, Zayn realizes, glancing sidelong at his husband.

He does not have time to contemplate his husband’s intelligence, however. When he glances back at the approaching group, King Alerick’s gaze alights on him. Recognition flashes in his grey eyes, and it is impossible to miss the sudden downturn of his mouth or the slight stumble in his step. Zayn’s heart thrums in his chest, and he waits to hear his name.

However, it is the Princess Aliss who announces his identity. Her grey eyes widen, and her voice nearly squeaks when she shouts, “Zayn!”

He flinches, eyes shooting to the Nalé, who straightens. When he glances back at Aliss, her father has stepped in front of her, affixing a forced grin on his face to cover his own surprise. Tension has flooded the air between the two groups of people. The Albinians all stare at Zayn, recognizing his name if not his face, but it is the Nakizi’s reaction which surprises Zayn. His guard moves around him quite suddenly, until he is nearly surrounded. Suspicion graces the faces of every Nakizi present, but it is not suspicion aimed at Zayn. Clearly, they have also recognized Zayn’s name on Aliss’s tongue, and as Liam guides his horse in front of Zayn, he realizes that they are not happy about it.

Dread settles heavily in Zayn’s gut, joined by a feeling of responsibility. It is his first appearance at his husband’s side, and his mere presence has already ruined it. If he were a petty man, he might feel vindicated, but he is not a petty man. Moreover, he does not understand where this tension stems from.

“Apologies, Nalé Liam,” King Alerick states, slowly. Niall immediately begins translating from Liam’s left, to Zayn’s surprise. He had assumed that the King, like Zayn’s father, would speak Nakizi, but Niall’s quick translation proves otherwise.

 Liam tilts his head, a gesture to continue though his face remains expressionless.

“My daughter does not mean offense,” King Alerick explains, gaze flickering between Liam and Zayn, sharp eyes taking in Liam’s defensive position. Zayn has to stifle a stubborn urge to push his horse level with the Nalé. “She, and myself as well, is just surprised to see the young Prince of Hal among you. May I inquire as to the reason for his presence?”

Niall barely finishes translating that before Liam is answering. His strong voice carries through the courtyard, but Zayn recognizes nothing of what he says until the end. “...hi ez nen zishun.”

“Prince Zayn, formerly of Hal, has renounced his birthright,” Niall translates, blue eyes firmly locked on King Alerick. “By treaty with Hal, he is of the Dragon Nakin now. He is the Nalé’s husband.”

Zayn struggles not to shrink under the announcement, and he ignores the flutter in his chest at Liam claiming him publicly. He focuses instead on King Alerick’s reaction. His anger is well hidden, but Zayn has extensive practice at reading the emotions behind polite court masks. King Alerick’s fists tighten momentarily at his sides, and his face loses a touch of color. Princess Aliss, nearly hidden behind him, stares wide-eyed at Zayn. The advisors’ reactions are easier to parse, uneasy shifting and dark muttering rising up from among them.

 It is easy to see that the news disturbs them, but it is not easy for Zayn to understand why.

“By treaty,” King Alerick echoes after a weighted pause. “I am to take it then, that you have allied yourself with Hal.”

Nalé Liam tilts his head once more, evaluating this time. His expression is no longer blank; it is cold. He turns to Niall this time when he speaks.

 “The Nalé requests that this discussion takes place inside,” Niall offers. “Unless, of course, the Nakizi are no longer welcome in your city.”

Zayn nearly flinches at the blunt statement, and King Alerick’s smile hardens.

“Of course your presence is still welcome,” he answers. “Please, come inside. Your personal guards are, of course, also welcome, though we ask that the rest of your group remains here. If you could also send your dragons away now, our trading can commence immediately after our meeting.”

It is only the subtle shifting of the Nakizi when Niall translates that alerts Zayn to the irregularity of this request. He wonders whether requesting that most of the Nakizi stay behind or requesting that the dragons leave is new, or perhaps both. He wonders what meaning King Alerick intends to convey by doing so. Limiting the freedom of the Nakizi within his city certainly conveys a level of distrust, one which centers on Zayn’s presence among them. It is an insult to the Nakin, and Liam in particular, to make these new demands.

Zayn is surprised, then, when Liam ducks in his head in acquiescence. He slides from his horse, deadly grace in his every movement. When he stands up straight, Zayn is arrested by the sight of him: broad, muscular shoulders, form-fitting leather riding outfit, long, untamed hair only halfway pulled back, and that piercing stare. Liam looks every inch the rumored Nakizi warrior Zayn now knows him to be, whether or not he has witnessed Liam’s fighting skill. For one long moment, where everyone seems frozen, Zayn feels a wash of pride well up in him, pride that this man is his husband.

The rest of the Nakizi follow, breaking the small moment, and Zayn goes to dismount as well. He is halted by a hand on his ankle, and he startles, looking down into Liam’s eyes.

“Dazun, Zayn,” he states, quietly, but his voice still carries. His tone reminds Zayn of the gentle way he spoke on their wedding night, and he can feel a blush staining his cheeks. When Liam offers a hand, Zayn understands. He takes the offering, letting Liam help him dismount. His blush only grows when his body slides alongside Liam’s, who does not step back to give him room. When Zayn’s feet hit the ground, Liam remains pressed firmly against him.

The men all shift around them, one man taking the reins of both Liam’s horse and Zayn’s. When Zayn’s horse nearly blocks them from view, Liam’s hand comes up to Zayn’s cheek, cradling it. In the shifting of the Nakizi, as those who will remain here separate from those who will enter the castle, Zayn imagines he and Liam are nearly invisible.

He wonders if that was his husband’s intention.

“Saishal, Zayn,” Liam states, holding his eyes. “Jec cen ne.”

The seriousness in Liam’s dark brown gaze surprises Zayn, who is unfamiliar with this calm, serious side of his husband.   

“He’s telling you to be careful,” Niall’s voice nearly startles Zayn away, but Liam keeps him pressed firmly between his body and Zayn’s mare. Niall’s eyes are just as seriousness when Zayn looks to him. “He wants you to stay with him.”

Liam’s fingers exert a bit of pressure, and Zayn blindly turns back to him. “Yn,” he answers without prompting. “Yn, Nalé.” He has no desire to fight Liam on this request, not when Liam’s presence makes him feel safe.

Liam’s shoulders relax a bit, and his fingers linger against Zayn’s skin as he draws away.

He shifts away, and Niall steps next to Zayn in a practiced move, nudging Zayn to follow when Liam begins walking. “You need to dismiss Fraeyn,” Niall whispers as they move towards the lingering dragons.

Zayn is about to ask why he must do it, but then he catches sight of the animals and understands. He has thought, many times, that the dragons are more intelligent than the stories tell, and looking at them now, he truly believes it. Ossium and Fraeyn are shifting, eyes restlessly moving over everyone in the courtyard. Ossium’s eyes, normally friendly and warm, are narrowed in a human gesture so similar to Liam’s that for one moment Zayn wishes to laugh. He swallows his laughter though when he sees the smoke trailing unhappily from Fraeyn’s snout. It is not the puff of air she sometimes hits him with, but a thin and continuous stream, which if it had sound, would no doubt be a low growl. Their discomfort is obvious, and Zayn marvels at animals sensitive enough to pick up on such subtle emotions.

Still he whispers back, “Liam could not do it?”

Niall lifts one blonde eyebrow, but answers Zayn with a slight smile. “I doubt she would listen to him at this moment.”

The idea that Fraeyn will only obey him is a heady one, which Zayn tries to keep from going to his head. It is difficult though to keep from feeling powerful when they draw to a stop before the large beasts. Power emanates from the dragons in a continuous and involuntary way, and Zayn understands now why Liam did not fight King Alerick on the dragons’ dismissal. Everyone in this courtyard will witness two men control two dragons. Everyone will witness power. Again, Zayn acknowledges the cunning of his husband.

“Ossium,” Liam calls. The great grey dragon bends its large head obligingly. With one quick pat to his nose, Liam directs him, “Dec.”

A low rumble escapes Ossium, but Liam does not acknowledge it. With a huff, Ossium’s wings spring open, shocking the Albinians, and he flings himself skyward.

When Zayn looks to Fraeyn, she looks back at him with what looks like irritation. She does not wish to go. Zayn swallows back another laugh and reaches a hand forward to stroke along her flank. “Sorry, Fraeyn,” he whispers, before raising his voice to command her. “Dec.”

Her golden eyes flash, but her wings snap out. Ossium is larger than Fraeyn, and more powerful in build, but Zayn is not surprised when Fraeyn elicits more gasps from the crowd around them. His dragon is stunning, with her brilliant coloring and the delicate webbing of her wings. Looking at the two, it is easy to see that Ossium has strength, but Fraeyn has speed. She proves it, showing off, when she takes off with little warning and almost immediately catches the disappearing shape of Ossium.

They disappear from sight before the dust settles from their impromptu takeoff, and Zayn bites back a smile at the murmurs behind them. Let the Albinians witness this power. Let them witness the power of the Nakin aez Draza. 

* * *

 

The room King Alerick holds council in is strikingly different from Zayn’s father’s council room. Where King Yaser utilizes a small chamber set behind his throne room, adorned with a simple table and chairs, King Alerick’s council room is nearly garish in comparison. Heavy drapes fall down the walls, making the room appear smaller, and the large table in the center speaks of wealth. Where once Zayn might have been impressed with this showing – where once, in fact, he is fairly certain he was, as a child – he now feels stifled and overwhelmed. The showing of wealth annoys him, and he thinks the table looks foolish when their moderately sized party barely takes up half the chairs around it.

Glancing at Liam, once more, Zayn thinks he feels much the same. His fingers have been tapping against the fine wood of the table for the better part of the meeting, and as it continues, his posture slumps further into his chair. Louis, to his other side, slouches indecently and the arrogant lift to his chin adds to his disdain. Only Niall, who stands behind Liam, still maintains a level appearance of interest in the proceedings, though Zayn suspects that is largely because he is forced to translate everything both the Albinians and Liam say.

That is another thing which sticks uncomfortably to Zayn’s ribs. King Alerick does not speak a single word of Nakizi, and Zayn knows that the man must understand enough to at least attempt to bridge the language divide. He does not though. Instead, and worst of all, he has taken to addressing Zayn directly.

“And when did your wedding take place, Prince Zayn?” Alerick asks now, after all the pleasantries about their journey have been exchanged, with Niall giving Liam’s answers even though Alerick’s eyes have not left Zayn.

“We would have sent a gift, of course,” Alerick continues, teeth sharp in his smile, “had we known about it.”

Zayn wonders if King Alerick believes him dense enough to miss the pointed barb in that statement, or if he believes Liam is. Neither of them mistake his meaning, and Louis grins back in a fiercer mockery of Alerick’s smile to prove that even he understands tone. Zayn glances to Liam, as he has done after every question, but this time Liam does not immediately respond. Instead, he studies Zayn and then nods.

Zayn’s mouth goes a bit dry, but he swallows around it and turns back to King Alerick. He does understand what permission to speak at a meeting such as this one looks like. “My father wished to notify our neighbors, King Alerick,” he begins levelly. “But due to the Nakizi’s strict trading route, we were rather pressed for time. The Nakin only camped outside of Hal for less than a fortnight, and my wedding took place the day before we departed.”

Alerick’s eyebrows twitch, as though they wish to fly up in surprise, and Zayn almost looks for Princess Aliss’s reaction before he remembers that her father had curiously sent her away once they entered the castle. “Such a sudden event,” Alerick answers after a moment too long. “Your parents must have been devastated at your choice in husband.”

The phrasing of Alerick’s statement sends chills down Zayn’s spine, but it takes him a moment to parse exactly why. The implications behind the word choice, combined with Alerick’s assumption about Zayn’s parents, proves Alerick’s mistaken conclusion though.

King Alerick believes that Zayn requested to marry the Nalé, out of love or, judging by the faintly disgusted look on his face, out of lust.

The assumption sends anger racing through Zayn’s blood, and he can feel himself flushing because of it. For this man to assume that Zayn would fall in love so blindly, like a child, is insult enough, but for him to also believe that Zayn would abandon his duty, his home, his people, is untenable. King Alerick and King Yaser had schooled Princess Aliss and Zayn together many times during their visits. This man has witnessed Zayn grow, yet he looks at him now and sees nothing but a weak, impetuous boy.

Zayn’s shoulders tense when he realizes the full insult just given to him, hands digging into the armrests of his chair to restrain himself from leaping up and shouting. Only the reminder that he is not in his father’s Council keeps him seated.

“I believe you are mistaken,” he manages through gritted teeth, voice barely level. “My marriage was not a personal matter but a political one, as most royal marriages are. It sealed our alliance with the Nakin aez Draza.”

 Niall’s quick and muted translation for the other Nakizi nearly distracts Zayn from the momentary calculation in King Alerick’s eyes, but Zayn catches it.

“So the translator was not mistaken then,” Alerick focuses intensely on Zayn, who feels more than sees the way Niall tenses at the label Alerick so carelessly assigned him. Even Zayn, clueless as to Niall’s actual position within the Nakin, understands yet another slight. The insults pile higher and higher, incongruous with the reception the Nakizi received from the citizens. Zayn does not understand what has changed Alerick’s attitude so quickly. “Hal has allied with the Nakizi against Banshia,” Alerick states.

“Only if it comes to war,” Zayn corrects, glancing nervously at Liam, who has straightened once more. Dread curdles in Zayn’s gut, and he feels that he has taken a wrong step somewhere. It is a feeling he has not felt in a long time, not since he was a boy at Council, first learning the rules and the cunning involved.

Alerick merely hums, grey eyes cold with evaluation. His advisors all use restless fingers to take notes, and their expressions betray little more than their King’s does. “And was the translator right about the rest of it as well?” Alerick inquires. “Did you denounce your birthright to rule Hal?”

Zayn looks to Liam for guidance, but his husband gives him nothing. “Yes,” he forces himself to answer, unable to look back at Alerick.

One of the advisors makes a noise of surprise that he turns into a poor cough, and Zayn flinches. He expects laughter to be the next noise these men have to choke back, now that they understand.

“Well,” Alerick’s voice sounds relieved, though Zayn cannot figure out why. What about this information has pleased Alerick? “I imagine then that one of your sisters will take your place.”

Zayn, understanding this much at least, says nothing. It is not his place to announce the new succession. King Yaser will let all of the Cities know. Moreover, it is rude of Alerick to ask him.

Alerick offers a tight smile. “The announcement will come then, yes? Good. I do admit to some confusion though, Pri – young Zayn.”

The stumble over his title makes Zayn want to shout, but he swallows it down. This meeting is so much worse than he had even feared. Shame, anger, and confusion make a noxious combination. “Yes?”

“What did the Nakizi receive from this agreement?”

Zayn snaps his head up, shocked into it, but Alerick merely tilts his head. Zayn’s eyes track to Niall, who is furiously translating, pale skin flushing nearly pink in anger. Liam’s expression conveys nothing, but Louis has sat upright, arrogant smirk gone behind a tight-lipped frown. Zayn does not blame the man though, because what Alerick has just done is unheard of.

You do not ask the details of an agreement between one of the Kings and another party. It is poor form. In times of peace, it is enough insult to start a war. It has in the past, Zayn knows.

Yet Alerick continues to look at Zayn as though he had not heard Niall translating, as though the Nakizi do not understand. He looks to Zayn as though this conversation takes place between two friends.

Zayn understands, quite suddenly, that this man is not his friend.

“It was a marriage agreement. Though I am sure you mean no offense, King Alerick, you –”

 “Yes,” Alerick cuts him off, treading completely over the translation that Niall is hurriedly whispering, and, Zayn realizes, he has done so the entire time. He has not paused once, to allow for translation, as though he is not addressing the Nakizi at all.

Zayn feels lightheaded with anger and frustration.

“Yes, I understand that,” Alerick continues. “But that implies all they received in return was you. They did not receive your birthright, nor a dowry as you are not a woman. Judging by your presence among them, they did not receive titles or lands in Hal. So tell me what they received in this deal.”

Zayn gapes at the man. He tries to rationalize Alerick’s actions, he does – a brewing war, shifting power, worry over his own City – but nothing calls for this. This feels like an attack.

And, Zayn can admit to himself, he does not have the answer. He does not know what the Nakin received in return. Freer trade, he imagines, and a general promise for aid, but he knows of nothing further. The Nalé had asked for him, and Zayn had not even questioned that.

Whatever Zayn’s face shows, it makes Alerick’s eyes widen.

Zayn hurries to offer an explanation, any explanation, instead of whatever conclusions Alerick is coming to. “One of the dragons –”

“Zayn,” Liam’s voice, though not overly loud, cuts through the room like a knife. Zayn falls silent under it like a well-trained dog, and even Alerick, for perhaps the first time, looks to Liam.

Liam has finally sat up, paying full attention. He looks, again, like the Nalé. “Kezh,” Liam states, looking firmly at Zayn, who does not need a direct translation. He understands when he is being told to be quiet.

“Yn, Nalé,” he ducks his head and sits back, allowing Liam to take charge. It is as much a relief as it is a frustration, and Zayn hates himself for giving in so easily.

When Liam speaks again, his voice is firm, and Zayn knows implicitly that no one will argue with whatever he announces.

Niall waits for Liam to stop speaking before he begins translating, blue eyes like lightning on Alerick’s face.

“The Nalé requests that his husband be excused from this meeting and that our traders be allowed to set up in the market. He asks any further questions about the marriage treaty with Hal be directed at him, as he made the treaty with King Yaser, and that these questions be asked in private.”

Alerick, who perhaps is no fool at all, has the grace to pretend at embarrassment. “Yes, of course, Nalé Liam. I may have gotten ahead of myself, speaking with Zayn. I have known him since he was a child after all.”

Zayn has to turn his face away to hide his expression as Niall translates, and his eyes fix on Liam, who is staring at him. Though his face remains stoic, his eyes show worry.

When Liam speaks, he addresses Louis and Zayn’s guard. It is not until he is done speaking to them that he addresses Zayn once more. “Dec, Zayn. Dec cen Louis and ta vulkezi.”

Zayn nods and rises, pretending full understanding when he only understands the word for dismissal. Apprehension settles along his spine at putting his back to Alerick and his men, and frustration wells up at being dismissed so easily. He feels voiceless, once more, a child among grown men. It is not something he enjoys, but he wishes to be here even less.

Niall whispers to him as he walks away, “Your guard will follow you around the market. Stay with them. Louis is to stay with you as well. Do not fight this.”

Zayn nods, remembering Liam’s ultimatum. The memory of his fight with Liam may have faded under the ease of their morning together, but he remembers all too well now how much control his husband has.

 His only consolation, as he sweeps from the council room, is that Louis looks just as displeased as he does.

* * *

 

The market teems with life. Vendors call out from their stalls, hawking their wares in loud voices, and people haggle over their prices. All of the color that was missing from Hal’s market, Zayn finds here. Cooking stands cloud the air with delicious scents, ranging from the familiar to the foreign, and the crowd drifts through the narrow alleys created by the collapsible tents. It is precisely the marketplace he had dreamed of as a child, but he finds he is in too foul of a mood to fully enjoy it.

Whispers of his presence have spread from the castle, as people frequently stop and stare at him. Some gape at the Nakizi men around him more than Zayn himself, but others make their disdain quite clear. He hears his name on every set of lips he passes, murmurs of Prince Zayn, Prince Zayn, Prince Zayn, and it itches along his skin. He is no longer Prince Zayn; he has not felt like Prince Zayn since the moment he entered the Nakin.

His only relief comes in the firm shield his vulkezi form around him. Eli walks so closely to Zayn’s right that his arm occasionally brushes Zayn, and Ezra, Ani, and Kaz are not much better. Zayn would ordinarily find such closeness suffocating, but it is the opposite on this day, when he can see how dearly the people wish to approach him. He does not understand the desire, whether they wish to interact with the former Prince of Hal or whether they wish to interact with a man who married the fierce, young Nalé. Or whether they wish nothing quite so innocent.

Hatred is not hard to recognize, even if Zayn did not expect it here. Yet several people clearly dislike the presence of the Nakizi, and Zayn’s place among them only seems to have exacerbated that sentiment.

When one man knocks purposefully into Ani within moments of their mingling into the crowds, Zayn tenses, expecting his fierce guard to strike back. Yet Ani merely balances herself and flicks her long braid over her shoulder, ignoring the man completely. It is out of character for most of the Nakizi warriors, but especially for Ani, whom Zayn once witnessed stab a man for attempting to take food from her plate.

The pattern continues though, as they immerse themselves further into the crowd. People shove into them on occasion, some purposeful, some not, but outside of keeping them from touching Zayn, none of the Nakizi react.

Even Louis, who holds himself just outside of the square Zayn’s guards make, does not react to the people around him, not their interest or disgust. It speaks of a level of control, and a level of familiarity with these reactions, that Zayn had not thought the Nakizi would have.

Zayn wonders how often the Nakizi encounter these reactions, but he is quickly distracted when his guard comes into the section where their Nakin has set up. He nearly gapes at the number of stalls set up, the sheer amount of goods their contingent has brought with them. The number of wagons that had trailed them into the city had not seemed overly full to Zayn, but each must have weighed nearly a ton.

The Nakizi have set out weapons, food, spices, leather, wares, and so many other items that Zayn cannot count them all. Unsurprisingly, the Albinians have flooded this section of the marketplace. The bartering, at least what Zayn can see of it, appears to take place nonverbally, with expansive gestures and fingers to indicate prices. Nakizi men and women who rode in the wagons guard their wares with fierce expressions and haggle over the prices with stubborn pride. The earlier animosity Zayn had felt does not linger here.

“Zayn?” Eli’s voice calls.

Zayn turns to him, curious because his young guard hardly ever speaks. The boy is looking at him questioningly, and it only takes Zayn a moment to understand. Though Eli does not speak Core, his face is expressive enough that Zayn can puzzle out his meaning without much trouble in most circumstances. Now he nods around the marketplace and looks to Zayn, asking him where he would like to go.

It is not something Zayn had thought about, when Liam had dismissed him, but he feels a small smile overtake his mouth as he realizes the freedom he has been given. It is like a gift, and Zayn wonders if Liam had intended it as such.

“Dazun,” Zayn murmurs, trying to sound authoritative without commanding as he turns on his heel and heads towards the nearest stall showing weapons. His guard follows without complaint, and Zayn relaxes a bit. Though his guard seems to like him well enough, and though none of them have ever given him any cause to fear them, he still does not understand his place with them. Giving commands to them feels unnatural, but they take it in stride.

Arriving at the weapons, the Nakizi woman manning the stall eyes Zayn with some interest, before turning her sharp gaze to an Albinian man who has picked up one of her daggers. Zayn watches them communicate with their hands until the man eventually holds up three fingers and the woman nods. The exchange of money is fast and practiced, coins disappearing into a bag tied to the woman’s waist as the man takes the dagger and its scabbard. When another man begins bartering, Zayn turns his attention to the weapons laid out.

His familiarity with weaponry does not extend much beyond what he was trained in. Hal favors a traditional warfare, bows and swords, lances and maces. Zayn favored a short sword in training, lighter and able to be wielded one-handed. Many of the Nakizi daggers – forged in Cazikan with jewels laid into the hilts – are just as long as the swords Zayn liked, and he hefts one of them up, weighing its balance. It feels lighter in his hand than any of the blades he had in Hal, but it has been a long time since he has held a weapon at all. He had not brought much beyond a dagger with him, and any weapons gifted to them at the wedding had disappeared. When he wraps his fingers tightly around the handle, the feeling of a weapon in hand sets him at ease. His fingers dance lightly along its metal edges, feeling the sharpness of them. He had not known the Nakizi could craft weapons this fine.

When he glances up, the Nakizi woman is studying him.

She speaks, but Zayn understands nothing of what she says.

Embarrassed, he cannot meet her eyes when he admits, “Nk Nakizi. E nkd.” It is the best he can offer, broken though it is.

Her expression does not change, but she points at the dagger. “Tar.”

Zayn’s eyes widen, and he places the dagger hurriedly back on the plank of wood serving as a counter. “Nk. Nkd ne.” He does not have the money for it, and he gestures so by showing his empty hands.

 Her gaze flicks to his hands, but then she shrugs, a gesture Zayn had seen her make to her customers when they had refused to go higher on their offers. He had taken it to mean not her problem. “Ta az Nalé’m.” She picks the dagger back up and slides it into a scabbard. The red jewel in the hilt blinks in the sun as she offers it again to him. “Hegh. Hegh pez ta.”

“I do not...” Zayn trails off when the woman only continues to watch him. Slowly, his fingers reach out and wrap around the hilt of the dagger. The woman releases it immediately, nodding to herself as her lips twitch at the corners.

“Yn. Yn, tar.”

“Gunsuim,” Zayn murmurs, embarrassed but pleased by the gift, for that is what he thinks this woman intends. The smile on her face grows, and she nods her head once more. It is perhaps the first time that Zayn has truly interacted with any of the Nakizi outside of his guard and Liam, and he feels better for it. Her small kindness means more to him than he expects.

The feeling fades when Louis snorts pointedly from beside him as Zayn straps the dagger to his thigh, using a leather cord the woman produces.

 Zayn tenses up immediately, fingers halting over the knot he just tied. When he looks up at Louis, the man stares back, eyes mocking and cold.

 “Ta az nkd Nalé’m. Ta izhav Nalé.”

Eli hisses from beside Zayn, his hand dropping to the pommel of the sword he carries. Louis only smirks further. He does not drop his hand to his sword, but he does not need to. Zayn has seen Louis fight, and though he has faith in Eli’s abilities, he knows his young guard would be no match for Louis.

The decision to step between them is no decision at all. “E iz Nakizi,” Zayn states calmly. Unhappy surprise flits through Louis’s eyes, and Zayn is grateful that Niall had chosen to teach him that particular phrase. _You ought to own it,_ Niall had said, young face serious for once. _You are here now. You are one of us._ It had been in that nebulous time after Louis and his companions had insulted Zayn, and Zayn had learned despite himself.

“E iz Nakizi,” he reiterates. “Liam ez zishun.”

Louis sneers, sudden and ugly. “Zishun,” his voice twists over the word, turning it into a mockery.

“Yn,” Zayn keeps his voice firm but not angry. He is all too aware of the eyes on them. The woman watches with interest, taking no sides, but Zayn’s guard has become restless. Eli and Ani both touch their weapons, and even Kaz, the most even-tempered of them all, wears a look of distaste. It is not what he would have expected, his guard to side with him over Louis. He spares a moment to wonder what has changed, but keeps most of his focus on Louis. A fight in the marketplace of Albin is the last thing they need today.

“Yn, zishun,” Zayn repeats. He is Liam’s husband, whether he wanted it or not, and he will not allow Louis to continue ignoring that. Zayn is quite done hiding himself away. He has nothing to be ashamed about, and the realization is startling.

It gives him strength enough to straighten, strength enough to speak even though his limited Nakizi fails him. “I am his husband. The Nalé chose me. Fraeyn chose me. I am Nakin aez Draza.”

Louis shoves closer, snarling. “You are not! You are nothing! Pukuin! Neez!”

The switch to Core startles Zayn, but not enough to remove the sting from Louis’s insults. “City-scum?” he snaps back. “And so what if I am? Your Nalé still chose me! He –”

 “Hi cugev anshiayn ta az. Anshiayn –”

 “I do not –” Zayn recognizes the word but does not know its meaning.

“Beautiful,” Louis smiles, but it is a mockery, twisted and cruel. “Beautiful like whore. Neez, whore of the Nalé, you are. Only whore.”

Zayn had assumed neez meant something along those lines, but to hear Louis say it in Core, a language Zayn had not realized he understood, cuts him deeply. His anger rises, uncontrollable. “And you are –”

“Am I interrupting?”

Zayn spins to the female voice, not recognizing it, but he recognizes the speaker as soon as he turns.

“Princess Aliss.” He bows out of muscle memory, stunned to see her.

Princess Aliss dips her knees in a short curtsy, curious eyes floating over Zayn’s entourage. Her clever gaze dips to Louis’s hand, now on his sword, and a delicate eyebrow arches. “I _have_ interrupted something.”

Zayn steps forward, blocking Louis from view, and Louis, perhaps not so rash after all, allows it and falls into a resting position. Likewise, all of Zayn’s guards drop their tension and fall into a loose formation.

"Nothing of import,” Zayn answers, though he knows Aliss will not believe him.

Indeed her lips twitch in humor. “Of course not. We are noble, after all, and nothing unseemly ever occurs with us.”

A short laugh escapes Zayn, and he relaxes. His fingers wrap lightly around her hand, and he brings it to his lips, pressing a short kiss to her pale skin. Warmth infuses his voice when he admits, “It is good to see you again, Aliss.”

Aliss pulls her hand away with a longer laugh, using it drag along Zayn’s cheek in a familiar gesture. It is one borne of growing up and learning to rule together. For years, Aliss has been Zayn’s friend. “And you, Zayn. It has been entirely too long.”

“Not long,” Zayn corrects. “Two years, Aliss.”

“Three,” she pouts at him. “You were at least a head shorter last I saw you.”

“But you were exactly this blunt.”

Aliss’s grin is mischievous, and Zayn remembers why he had always enjoyed his visits to Albin with his father. Though their visits had not numbered every year, he still feels like he had grown up alongside Aliss. Their friendship had always felt very real, and it is soothing to Zayn now.

The grin does not slip from Aliss’s face when she teases, “But your height is not all that has changed about you.”

Zayn pretends ignorance. “Am I broader as well?”

“I suppose you are thicker, if you think that comment will distract me.”

Zayn flushes. He knows better than to underestimate Aliss’s cleverness, and her sharp comment reminds him. He glances up and sees the way his guard and the surrounding loiterers watch them. Unfriendliness graces their expressions, and Zayn’s stomach drops.

“Walk with me,” he mutters, offering Aliss his arm. She hesitates. “Aliss this is not a conversation to be had standing still.”

His logic sways her. She slips her thin arm into his, and Zayn quickly leads her. He guides them down the center of the marketplace, keeping well clear of the stalls but within the crowd. Nakizi and Albinians alike stare at them, but Zayn disregards it. He also ignores his guard and Louis, who trail behind them so closely.

“Well I do believe I have not been stared at so intensely since that day we traded clothes,” Aliss murmurs, an attempt to break the tension.

Zayn chokes on a laugh and shoots her a grateful look. “Traded is a nice word. If my memory is correct, you stole all my clothes and refused to return them until I walked about in one of your dresses.”

“I would never.”

 “Of course not. You have always been the height of propriety.”

Aliss laughs and squeezes Zayn’s arm. “I am when I need to be. As are you.”

The comment is sobering, and Zayn feels his smile fall a bit. He studies his thick leather wedding cuff, a tangle of emotions clenching in his gut. “I suppose I am.”

“I always knew you would marry young, Zayn,” Aliss whispers, pulling him close so he can hear her over the noise of the crowded market. “But the Nalé? If the rumors of him are true –”

“I think they are,” Zayn admits. Despite the fact that Zayn has not seen Liam wield a weapon, he believes the rumors. His Nakin numbers larger than any other, and Zayn has seen him give commands. Authority like that is impossible to fake. Besides, he know show power is transferred in a Nakin; if Liam were not strong, he would not be the Nalé.

Aliss’s grip on his arm tightens. “Then I do not understand. I always thought you would marry for love, but you cannot love him.”

 “Perhaps I do.”

“Do you?”

Zayn does not answer. He does not love Liam, of course. He hardly knows him, but, and this is troubling, Zayn does not think love is impossible between them. It is not something he has thought overly long about and not something he wishes to think about, for he fears it would be an entirely one-sided endeavor. It has been a thought hidden in his heart of hearts.

“Zayn,” Aliss’s voice has lost its teasing. “What happened, truly?”

He shrugs, eyes running over the crowd. The Nakizi are loud and joyous, unrestrained in a way people from the Cities are not. They are free, and that is one thing Zayn has always wished he could be. The events of this morning have shifted his views more than his time among the Nakizi. “What always happen to people in our position, Aliss? I married for my City, for my people, for my duty.”

“I am sorry.”

“Do not be. I am not.” Zayn is surprised that he means it, but he is not sorry. He did it for Hal, because it is what his City needed. It is what his City still needs. No matter what occurs, what Zayn has to endure, he will not regret doing what he must. It is something he has had trouble remembering of late, but it is the truth. “Besides, you too might find yourself in my position one day.”

He means it to be teasing, but when he glances at Aliss, he finds her biting her lip. Her expression is serious, eyes dark with thought.

 “Sooner than you might think,” she answers eventually, eyes carefully turned away.

Zayn tries to halt, but she pulls him along. “Aliss?”

She shakes her head, eyes moving over Zayn and taking his measure. Her eyes skip over his shoulder suddenly, and Zayn turns to see his guard. Whatever Aliss means, she will not voice it in front of them.

Curiosity gets the better of Zayn, and he pulls Aliss into a half circle of stalls set up around a fountain. The crowd is less dense here, and Zayn’s guard can keep an eye on him without having to follow his every step. When his guard tries to move with them, Zayn stops them with a hand. “Jak.”

Confusion floods Eli’s face, and Louis makes an outraged noise. Only Ezra’s thick arm stops him from following.

 “Zayn?” Eli asks.

“Please,” Zayn motions back. Eli studies him, but eventually dips his dark head in acceptance. He retreats to the entrance of the stalls, and Zayn’s guards hover, half of them focused on the people passing, half focused on Zayn as he returns to Aliss.

“Aliss,” he whispers to her, grabbing her arm once more to lead her around the stalls. “You must tell me whatever troubles you.”

Her flirtation and laughter is gone, eyes steely as they take Zayn’s measure. It reminds him of the first moment he realized what a great ruler Aliss would someday be, all that cleverness so carefully hidden.

“My father sent me to speak with you,” she eventually answers, body and face giving nothing away.

 Cold seeps into Zayn’s veins, and he struggles to keep up a nonchalant expression. “Did he?”

Aliss’s look is impatient. “Stop that. I would hardly tell you that if I planned on playing spy for him.”

Zayn does not know if that is true, but he does know that Aliss has been carefully sidestepping her father’s demands since her thirteenth winter, when marriage became an inevitability. Whatever her motivations here, they are her own. The thought is not as calming as Zayn might have imagined.

 “If you are not here as his spy, then why are you here?”

“To see an old friend, of course.”

“Aliss.”

A slight smile tugs her lips, and she halts them at a stand. Her fingers dance over jewelry, and her smile to the Albinian running the stand is stunning enough to keep him on the other side of his display. “I may not be his spy,” she says, looking for all the world as if she is discussing the necklace she holds, “but that does not mean I do not have questions of my own.”

 “And what would you ask?”

 “I would ask about your marriage.”

Zayn’s heart drops. “We spoke of that in your father’s Council.”

“I was told you spoke very little.”

“My husband had the chance to speak even less,” Zayn snaps.

Aliss’s lip twitches downward in displeasure. “His methods could use work.”

“He insults us.”

“You know how my father acts when his plans have fallen apart.”

Zayn stops a question from flying off his tongue, taking his time. Aliss has just revealed something to him, and he must tread carefully with it. “And what plans were those?”

This time her lips twitch towards a smile, as she steps away from the stall. “You have learned how to play court games, Zayn.”

Zayn follows her as they walk. “Only recently,” he admits but does not allow himself to be distracted. “Aliss, please, what is this? You would not have mentioned this if you had not wished to tell me.”

She sobers. “Wishing to tell you and doing so are very separate things.”

His impatience gets the best of him, and with a frustrated huff, Zayn turns from Aliss and moves to the empty fountain. Seating himself on the edge, he waits. If Aliss truly means to tell him something, or wishes to know something from him badly enough, she will follow.

She does.

Taking her time about it, of course, Aliss wanders over to the fountain and sits beside him. They look out at the crowd. “Did you not notice something odd about my presence today?”

 “Your father claimed you as his heir,” Zayn replies. “You are always present.”

“Am I?”

Zayn wishes to say yes, but then he thinks of the Council meeting. He has not known her to miss one of her father’s Council meetings since she finally convinced him to allow her attendance.

“You were present on the steps,” Zayn reasons. “If he had not wished you to interact with the Nakizi, you would not have been there at all.”

“Perhaps he wished the opposite.”

 Zayn takes in Aliss’s appearance, truly takes it in. Her golden hair is done in ringlets, a fine dress wrapping around her body, and Zayn realizes this is how she appeared on the steps. Almost as he had appeared when...

“No.”

Aliss raises an eyebrow at him.

Zayn cannot believe it, but still he gives voice to his thoughts. “Your father wished to wed you to the Nalé.”

“He certainly wished to try.”

Zayn does not believe it; he cannot. Alerick has been protective of his only child since her birth. It is the reason she has remained unpromised. “He would not. The Nalé is –”

“A man rumored to have immense power? To be a fierce warrior?”

“Violent,” Zayn answers, because it is true. “Your father would not allow a man like that to have you.”

“Yours did.”

Zayn flinches. It is true, but he understands his father’s reasoning. Hal might well be the next City under siege from Banshia. Desperation forced his father’s hand. Yet Aliss seems to think her father would do the same, perhaps for the same reasons. “Your father cannot fear Banshia so greatly. Albin is rich in resources, protected by the Grasslands and your mines.”

“Albin is less threatened than Hal perhaps,” Aliss allows, “but Hal’s recent actions have made my father more paranoid than he should be.”

Aliss’s words make no sense to Zayn. He understands now why his marriage, and the treaty with the Nakin, would alarm Alerick, especially if he planned to do the same, but Alerick had not known about it until he had seen Zayn. It cannot be those actions then that made him consider this alliance. “Hal has done nothing,” he finally says.

“Exactly.” Aliss studies him. “Hal, and your father have done nothing at all.”

“Aliss!” Zayn snaps, tired of her games. “Clearly I do not –”

 "My father sent a marriage proposal to yours,” Aliss cuts him off, grey eyes evaluating. “He suggested an alliance through my marriage to you, Zayn.”

“No.” Zayn had heard nothing of this, though he had always expected it to be brought up one day. It would be a logical match, if nothing else. He knows it was only not done when they were children because it would confuse the succession of Hal and Albin, which due to distance, could not be combined into one City.

“Your father never answered,” Aliss continues, unmoved.

“That does not make sense,” Zayn protests. King Yaser would have at least denied the request outright. He would hardly leave Hal’s sister city unanswered.

“The offer may have reached him once the Nakin was already camped outside of Hal.”

Alerick’s preoccupation with Zayn’s wedding date makes terrible sense now, and his anger at Zayn’s presence. “Your father believes I was promised to the Nalé. For how long?”

 “You tell me.”

“Days,” Zayn nearly laughs. “Days, Aliss. It was not a premeditated match. The Nakizi have not even entered Hal for years. When would my father have arranged such a match?”

“Perhaps the rumors of the Nakizi’s banishment from Hal are false. Perhaps –”

 “Perhaps you are as paranoid as your father,” Zayn snaps. He will not suffer insults from Aliss, nor these leading statements. Hurt echoes briefly in his chest, for he had always thought Aliss was his friend first.

Aliss has the grace to look ashamed at least. “Your presence with them unnerves him, and me as well Zayn. You are the heir to Hal, you should be there, not here. What purpose do you serve except to let us know about Hal’s new loyalties?”

Zayn turns his head away. “You listen as well as your father,” he mutters. “I am no longer the heir to Hal.”

“I do not believe that.”

 “I do not care!” Zayn’s shout is loud enough to draw his guards’ attention. He waves them away with irritation, and he glares at Aliss, relishing in her shock. “I do not care what you believe. It is the truth. My presence here is because my place is with the Nakin now. I gave up Hal.”  

“That...” Aliss trails off, pale. “I thought your husband might inherit it with you. My father thinks the same. Zayn, what purpose does marrying you serve if –”

“Your father already asked. I will give you the answer I gave him. The treaty was struck between my father and my husband. My hand for their protection if war with Banshia comes to be. That is all.”

It is like hitting a bruise he did not know he had. The question of Liam’s motivations had not occurred to Zayn before, and now he feels a fool for not asking further. He knows that Fraeyn choosing him had much to do with Liam’s proposal, but he still understands little about that. The more people ask him, the more Zayn believes that Liam must have received something else in return, but he cannot guess what.

His confusion must bleed through his voice, for Aliss’s hand suddenly appears on his knee. When he looks up at her, he sees once more his friend.

She tries a tentative smile. “Perhaps you are all he wanted.”

Zayn snorts but does not remove her hand. “Do not be ridiculous, Aliss. I am hardly worth going to war for.”

 “I think you underestimate yourself,” Aliss answers. “Besides, you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”

Zayn flushes. “Aliss!”

She laughs, delighted. “It is true, but I see it still makes you uncomfortable. Shame, when I believe your husband thinks the same.”

Zayn thinks of Liam calling him anshiayn the first time they met. Beautiful is a compliment Zayn has heard before, yet it means more coming from a warrior like Liam. “You cannot know that,” he argues, for the sake of it.

Aliss raises a brow at him. “I saw the way he helped you from your horse, the way he hovered near you. I think anyone would come to the same conclusion.”

Zayn shakes his head. His husband may very well think him beautiful, but that does not mean much. Their relationship goes no further, truly. “It does not matter what he thinks. Neither of us married for love. Your father at least understood that much, judging by his and your questions.”

 “I am sorry.”

“Do not be,” Zayn forgives. “You are doing your duty as the heir to Albin. I will not hold your interrogation against you.”

“Not for that.” Aliss’s fingers wrap around his wrist, just above his leather band. She taps it with one finger. “But for what you have had to do.”

Zayn twitches despite himself, pulling his arm from her. He does not like someone else touching the band.

“The rumors about him...” Aliss trails off, studying Zayn. “If he mistreats you –”

 “He does not,” Zayn cuts her off. Even the night before, when Liam had lost his temper in the tent, he had not hurt Zayn. He had frightened him, but he had not hurt him.

“But you are not happy.”

Zayn looks away again. All of his guard looks at him, their expression unreadable from this distance. Only Louis gives his feelings away with his tense body language. Aliss is right, of course; he is not happy, but that has little to do with his marriage. Even if Liam were an adoring husband and Zayn loved him, Zayn would still be alone. He would still be an outsider. Until he is accepted among the Nakizi, that will never change.

“Happiness was never promised to me.”

Aliss suddenly moves closer, lips nearly to Zayn’s skin when she whispers, “If you wished to leave him, we would protect you. I would make my father –”

Zayn pulls away quickly, alarmed. “Aliss, no.” He studies her serious face, heart pounding. Her words are dangerous, speaking of breaking a treaty and inciting a violent people’s rage. Zayn thanks Kiza that his guards are far enough away and understand little to no Core.

 “I am married,” Zayn tells her, voice firm. “I will honor that.”

Uncertainty wars on Aliss’s face for a brief moment before she pushes it back. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” Zayn replies, for he is grateful for her offer, however misguided.

Humor suddenly returns to Aliss’s face. “I suppose I must accept that you will never be mine.”

Zayn laughs, no doubt her intention. “I suppose you must.”

A shadow falls over them, and Zayn looks up to see Eli and Louis standing beside the fountain. Louis looks furious, but Eli looks apologetic.

He sighs but stands. “I see that it is time for me to go.”

He turns to bid Aliss goodbye and sees her studying him.

“You have grown up, Zayn,” Aliss says. “This Nakizi life, it suits you.”

Zayn does not believe so, but he does not wish to burden her with his further unhappiness. “Perhaps.”

“I do miss the whip though,” Aliss adds, nodding to the dagger strapped to Zayn’s thigh. “Nakizi blades just do not have the same effect.”

His fingers slip over the gem imbedded in the handle. He had forgotten that he had already begun training with his whip the last time he had spent time in Albin. The whip Aliss references was a leather affair, a practice snake whip which Zayn had discovered in the corner of his father’s armory and been taken with. He had carried it around always, practicing whenever he had a moment, before eventually graduating to his metal battle whip. He thinks now of it with some nostalgia, left behind in his bedroom in Hal like so much of his life before.

“The Nakizi do not fight with whips,” he tells her.

“No, they do not,” Aliss grips his forearm in goodbye. It is a soldier’s farewell, and Zayn finds himself gripping back without thought. He supposes he and Aliss are more similar than ever now though, both young heirs sacrificing on the eve of war. They are soldiers in their own ways. “But though you may be of them now, you were not always. Do not forget that Zayn.”

He nods, and with one last squeeze of his arm, Aliss walks around him. Her bearing changes as she walks, shoulders straightening and smile lighting upon her face. By the time she reaches the main road of the marketplace, she is once more Princess Aliss.

When she turns to look over her shoulder, the mask slips for just one moment. Her eyes are serious and worried as she delivers one last parting comment, “Zayn, be careful. I do not know what my father’s next plan will be.”

It is a chilling warning, and Zayn takes it with all the seriousness with which it was delivered. Alerick’s desperation was already alarming, and it will only grow now. Aliss is right to worry, and he is grateful that she shared so. He understands the warning for what it is, a last favor between old friends. When he nods, Aliss smiles and then disappears.

 Zayn is left alone in a pocket of silence, a crowded marketplace swarming around him. It is darkly fitting, and, Zayn worries, perhaps prophetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sashuin a Albin - welcome to Albin  
> Saishal - careful  
> Jec cen ne - stay with me  
> Dec cen Louis and ta vulkezi - go with Louis and your guard  
> Nk Nakizi. E nkd. - No Nakizi. I not.  
> Tar - yours  
> Ta az Nale'm - you are the Nale's  
> Hegh pez ta - a gift for you  
> Ta az nkd Nale'm. Ta izhav Nale - you are the Nale's. You belong to the Nale.  
> E iz Nakizi - I am Nakizi  
> Liam ez zishun - Liam is husband  
> Hi cugev anshiayn to az - he thinks you are beautiful
> 
> As always any words that I feel were translated within the fic are left out, along with any others that will give away plot. Please ask if you think I left anything out!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's been a really long time since I updated again. I would tell you why, but it's the same reason: life. Have this really long chapter as an apology.
> 
> PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER  
> Warnings:  
> -dubcon (further explanation at the end because this situation is definitely dubcon)  
> -graphic violence (multiple scenes)  
> -DUBCON (I cannot warn enough because this dubcon is a complex scene and is very, very dubious)  
> -PLEASE READ THE FULL DUBCON WARNING AT THE END IF YOU ARE AT ALL WORRIED ABOUT THE DUBCON SCENE  
> -if you would like to skip the dubcon scene, you can tell when it is about to happen and skip to the next section without missing any important information

            Liam finds Zayn in the marketplace not long after Aliss departs. The only warning for his sudden appearance is the hush and then rush of conversation among the patrons. Zayn glances up from where he is examining a light linen shirt – one which he could find in Hal, a type of shirt that he misses – after having wandered into the Albinian section of the market, to see Liam striding directly and confidently for him. He has no time to wonder his husbands’ intentions, for moments later Liam is before him.

            His great hands come to either side of Zayn’s face, cradling his jaw in powerful palms, and Zayn’s breath hitches. “Anshiayn,” Liam’s deep voice rolls over the word, and Zayn feels himself flush. His conversation with Aliss has put thoughts into his head, thoughts which Liam’s sudden and intense focus are only inflaming. “Ta saishal?”

            Zayn’s fingers wrap gently around Liam’s wrists, not removing his husband’s hold but grounding it. His pulse pounds, and he knows it is because his husband has not touched him, skin to skin like this, since their wedding night. His head spins, thrown by the sudden affection and his husband’s words. He recognizes enough Nakizi to know that Liam speaks brokenly, the way Zayn does in his ignorance, so that Zayn may understand. It is a concession he had never expected, and it warms him.

            For the first moment since King Alerick recognized him, Zayn feels his heart and stomach settle, soothed between his husband’s palms. The market and Aliss’s warnings fade. “E saishal,” Zayn echoes back, reassuring Liam in his garbled Nakizi. “I am fine.”

            Liam studies him, brown eyes appraising, and Zayn tamps down on irritation. He does not believe Liam doubts him because he does not trust Zayn. He thinks, hopes, Liam only seeks confirmation for himself.

            “Ta saishal?” he repeats, his own eyes scanning over Liam’s form. He does not look changed from when they parted, his skin flushed and gleaming under the heavy sun but unmarked. It is a relief Zayn did not know he sought, but he recognizes his worry as it fades. Leaving Liam alone in the castle had taken more from Zayn than he had expected.

            Liam nods and his hands slip from Zayn’s face as he relaxes. Zayn lets him go, wishing to prolong the contact but unwilling to cling to his husband. He glances behind Liam to see his personal guard, Louis back among them and Niall at the front. Niall grins at them. Zayn does not meet his smirking blue gaze for long, embarrassed despite himself.

            His eyes fly back to Liam when he feels a sudden tugging around his thigh. He glances down to see Liam’s hand resting on the hilt of Zayn’s dagger, pulling at the leather strap which holds it to Zayn.

            When he looks back up, Liam tugs again on the dagger.

            “Oh,” Zayn feels himself flushing once more. “It was a gift, I think. Um, hegh.”

            Liam’s eyes light up, and now his fingers trace over the jewel in the hilt, the mark that makes it recognizably Nakizi.

            “Yn,” Zayn nods, understanding the unspoken questions. “Yn, hegh Nakizi.”

            A slow smile spreads over Liam’s mouth, brilliant in its simple joy, and Zayn can feel an answering one on his own face. He has not felt so in tune with his husband since the moment of their meeting, and he wishes to hold this balance between them.

            It is over too quickly when Niall’s voice breaks between them. “Nalé.”

            Liam and Zayn both look, and Niall nods his head over his shoulder to where a squadron of Albin guards has just entered the section of marketplace where they linger. Though the guards do not come closer, their presence is felt immediately. Zayn watches, confused, as Liam’s grin slips away, replaced by the stone face of the Nalé. His guards move closer as one, and Zayn’s guards respond in kind.

            “Liam,” Zayn’s voice is questioning, confused. He does not understand what the presence of the guard means, but his heart hammers in fear. If they attack now… Zayn had witnessed, once, the destruction a fight in the marketplace could wreak, when a single drunken man had taken on a handful of Hal’s guards. More innocent people had ended up hurt than guards, and that was with just one man against a few guards. This fight, should it occur, could be bloody.

            The crowd has noticed the tension by then, several people turning and walking quickly away but several more lingering around with interest.

            Liam’s hand slips around Zayn to press against his back. Zayn follows the silent command until he stands directly before Liam, who issues several verbal commands in quick and quiet bursts of Nakizi. The guards firm up around them until they are in two rows, surrounding Zayn and Liam in the middle.

            “Do not worry,” Niall’s voice comes from Zayn’s side, where he stands for once among the other guards. His blue eyes flick up to Liam as though for permission, and he nods once at whatever signal Liam gives him. “We are not fighting. We have been asked to leave the City.”

            “Asked,” Zayn repeats, looking again towards the guards. They have not drawn their weapons or made a threatening move forward, but their eyes betray them. Not a one has looked away from the Nakizi. “Or told?”

            Niall’s grin is tight, a mix of reckless and irritated. “Is there a difference with kings?”

            It hits deep in Zayn’s gut, but he has to admit Niall’s point. If Zayn had thought long about it, he might have concluded that Alerick would oust them from his City. Zayn’s father would likely do the same in a similar position. “And the traders?” he asks.

            Niall’s eyes flick over him, surprised. “The Nalé and his guard will tell them. We all depart the City today.”

            As though that was a signal, the Nakizi move as one. Liam pushes lightly against Zayn’s back to urge him along with them. They wind their way back through the marketplace, toward where the Nakizi have all set up. Albinian guards follow them at a discreet distance, but it still sets Zayn’s nerves on edge.

            Once among the stalls of the Nakizi, almost familiar after more than a fortnight living in the Nakin, Zayn relaxes. Nakizi traders and warriors watch them enter, and the tension must be obvious, for even Albinian citizens look.

            Zayn watches, as he has taken to doing in his silent but present position, and what he sees worries him. The Albinian guards linger, their motivation obvious, a constant reminder, and it amplifies the Nakizi’s feelings. Their feelings, too, are plain: anger, irritation, disgust. Most of it is aimed at the Albinian guards and by extension the King who forces their departure, but some of it is aimed at Zayn; his guard stays close and not by accident.

            Guilt twists in Zayn’s gut. The fault is not his, not in any traceable way, but he feels at fault regardless. The Nakizi rely on the income from their summer and fall trading route. Their profits from these stops carry them through the winter and spring, when they retreat to Cazikan and await the Cities’ spring crops so they can trade once more. They rely on the dried grain, fruits, and vegetables which they cannot grow in the rocky canyons of their home. Zayn knows they meant to linger outside of Albin for several days, but he doubts they will now. His presence has indirectly cut days of trade down to a morning, and he knows that it will hurt the Nakin. For the first time since he gave up his right to rule, Zayn feels the pressure of an entire people on his shoulders, a pressure he is woefully incapable of withstanding. 

            “Zayn,” Eli’s voice breaks into his haunted thoughts, and Zayn turns to see that his young guard holds the reins to Zayn’s mare, retrieved from wherever she was sent. Her presence soothes him, though not as much as Fraeyn’s would. “Dazun, Zayn,” Eli nods to where Zayn’s guards have all mounted their own horses.

            He steps toward his mare but pauses when he notices Niall standing beside a stall and conversing rapidly with the woman in charge of it. It is not the woman’s face, though angry, that captures his attention but rather Niall’s presence. His horse is nowhere to be seen. A quick glance confirms that none of Liam’s guard has mounted. Indeed, the only ones prepared to depart are Zayn, his guard, and a few other warriors.

            He moves away from his horse without thought and seeks out Liam. Eli follows him, the only one of his party not yet on his horse, but Zayn is used to his presence. He does not hesitate when he sees Liam and approaches his husband.

            “Liam,” he keeps his voice quiet, aware of the watchful eyes of many Nakizi around them. He is not sure if he ought to call his husband Nalé, and he thinks to ask Niall later.

            Liam turns toward him, hearing him over the ruckus of Nakizi dealing with the last of the lingering Albinians and beginning to pack up their stalls. His brown eyes are curious as he looks to Zayn. “Zayn, dec cen ta vulkezi a Nakin.”

            Zayn shakes his head, fingers reaching to tap once against Liam’s arm, just above his leather wedding band. “Ta?”

            Liam glances to his wrist and back to Zayn, confused. “Nk,” he shakes his head slowly. “E nkd dec.”

            Zayn bites his lip hard, fingers clenching around empty air rather than Liam’s wrist as he wishes. He is not naïve enough to think he can grab the Nalé in such a manner, not in front of his people, but he aches to. Liam means to stay, and it turns Zayn’s gut to knots. He does not want to leave Liam here.

            Something of that must reach Liam, for he steps closer still. His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he speaks, “Zayn. E gav saishal. Anshiayn, ta dec.”

            His voice is gentle but firm, and Zayn shakes his head the smallest amount. It is not a denial but an expression of feeling.

            Liam’s eyes are evaluating, measuring, his intelligence obvious for once. Zayn does not know if he is accurately conveying what he feels, but he trusts Liam to glean his meaning. And he does.

            “Zayn.” He caresses the name, and when he steps even closer, he uses one finger to tip Zayn’s chin up. His brown eyes are warm and kind when he meets Zayn’s gaze steadily.

            “Liam,” Zayn, in contrast, nearly chokes over his husband’s name. He wants to tell him to be careful, to be safe, to come home, but he does not have the words.

            His husband bends, lips finding sudden purchase on Zayn’s forehead. He relaxes into the gesture, soothed despite himself. One of Liam’s hands wraps around his bicep, and his lips brush against sun-warmed skin as he says, “Unte nubemiem, Zayn.”

            The words spark, a familiar promise and one that he understands. Zayn’s fingers brush against Liam’s chest, over his heart. He presses harder, just once, pushing into the warmth as though keeping the life inside. “Unte nubemiem,” he repeats, firm, something of a warning in his tone. He will see Liam again; he will.

            When Liam withdraws, his mouth is quirked up in amusement. “Dec, Zayn.”

            Zayn nods, accepting the command this time. Eli waits until Zayn grabs his mare’s mane and pulls himself up before he mounts his own waiting horse. Zayn does not look back; he does not think he will be able to leave if he looks at Liam, so he does not allow himself even a glance. His husband is the young Nalé, a fierce and legendary warrior, and he trusts that Liam knows what he does. Still, Zayn buries his fingers in his mare’s mane, seeking out the remembered warmth of his husband’s skin as he gives his waiting guard the command. “Dazun.”

* * *

 

            The camp stirs around Zayn, wind whispering through the tall grass, and Zayn’s head snaps up. He recognizes the sound, and he is up and moving before he spots the first Nakizi warrior on his horse. When he does, their long hair gleaming in the setting sun, he nearly runs to the center of the camp, where others await the last of the traders.

            When he had left Liam in Albin, he had expected his husband back quickly, but an entire afternoon had passed with only handfuls of Nakizi trickling in. Their group had, of course, been the first, and Zayn had left Eli and the others to explain their return to the elders who rested at the center of camp, where all the socializing took place. Zayn, for his part, had lingered around the edges, watching the Nakizi go about work but waiting anxiously.

            By the time a third group had arrived, Liam not among them, Zayn had figured out what his husband was doing. For every group of traders that arrived, warriors accompanied them, forming guards not dissimilar to Zayn’s. It was smart and well-executed, carefully planned for how spontaneous it must have been done. From any other man, Zayn would admire the intelligence and quick thinking of this plan, but from his husband, Zayn could only see its downfall. With every group that Liam sent ahead, he left himself with less and less protection.

            Zayn rationally understood why it was done this way, why Liam, in particular, had chosen to. As Nalé, he was expected to put his people first, just as Zayn’s father was, and as Zayn had been himself. But Zayn worried that his motivations extended beyond duty. His warrior husband was brave, and bravery was something the Nakizi encouraged to a reckless degree, Zayn had learned. The idea of Liam proving himself by risking himself sat poorly in Zayn’s gut. Courage was an admirable quality, but Zayn had never admired recklessness in others, especially in those he cares for. Waliyha’s wildness had often unnerved him, and hers was nothing compared to what he thinks Liam’s might be.

            The thoughts might have been enough to drive Zayn mad as the sun continued its descent if an elder woman had not grabbed him and set him to work. Her hands had thrust leather straps into Zayn’s and with a gesture toward his woven leather cuff, she had indicated what she wished from him. With one glance to Eli, who along with the rest of Zayn’s guard lingered near him, Zayn had set to the task, weaving leather braids of various lengths for reins and straps. It was nothing but busywork, a task for children who had no other jobs, but Zayn was grateful for it.

            One of those leather straps digs into his fist now as his hand clenches around it. His eyes search the arriving group desperately, hoping, and it is Niall’s gleaming head of blonde hair that catches his gaze first. Thumping hard, Zayn’s heart nearly stops when he finally sees Liam, dismounting his horse as his powerful shoulders flex. Even on the ground, he is taller and broader than most of his men, and Zayn hurries to his recognizable shape.

            Zayn does not know what he intends to do when he reaches Liam, but he never gets the chance to find out. Shouting stops him cold, the Nakizi tongue turned harsh as the loudness of it increases, and Zayn recognizes both voices.

            Liam and Louis shout at each other, ignoring all others around them. Zayn does not understand what they say, but he knows what the middle of an argument looks like. Whatever their issue, it has not just occurred. As other Nakizi remove the horses, leaving the men to their argument, Liam shoves into Louis’s space. His face, normally expressionless, is twisted in rage, and Zayn nearly recoils. His husband’s anger is fierce and unexpected, reminding Zayn of the argument in the tent the night before.

            His heart pounds, but Zayn steps closer. He wants to call for Liam, to turn his husband’s attention and see if he can recover the closeness they had discovered in Albin. Whatever his argument with Louis, Zayn wants to end it. Another step forward and he is among Liam’s guard, most of whom watch with poorly concealed interest. Only Niall looks dismayed, and that expression grows when he catches sight of Zayn.

            Niall shakes his head, once, hard, and Zayn stops. Niall gestures him away, eyes flicking nervously between him and Louis, him and Liam, him and everyone around them.

            It only takes a moment for Zayn to realize – the fight is about him – but it is a moment too long.

            Louis’s eyes snap to him, and he lets loose an enraged shout. “Zayn! Tar zishun!”

            His voice turns the word husband into a mockery, twisting one of the only words that Zayn understands. Zayn’s eyes flicker to Liam, whose mouth is turned down in displeasure. Zayn quickly looks away, disappointment filling his stomach, and he stumbles a step back.

            Louis pushes forward, shoving past Liam and towards Zayn. “Jak!”

            Zayn halts out of reflex, and Liam hisses something at Louis. Others around them begin to murmur, and Zayn casts about for his guard. He sees them, but they stand beyond Liam’s men, keeping a careful distance. Eli and Ani look worried, but they do not step forward. They will not interfere with their Nalé.

            Louis shouts something back at Liam, overwhelming whatever Liam is telling him. Zayn cannot hope to follow it, but he thinks he understands when Louis begins gesturing to Niall. He jabs his finger from Niall to Zayn, but Niall looks to Liam, ignoring Louis’s demands. If Zayn could find his voice, he would ask Niall to speak, if only to get this moment over with. The feeling of so many eyes upon him makes Zayn’s skin crawl. They still stand in the center of the Nakin, the entirety of Liam’s people watching.

            “Kezh!” Liam roars, but it does not stop Louis this time.

            “Nkd kezh! Nk! Hi ez pukuin. Hi –” 

            “Louis –”

            “Sik hir!” Louis rages, blue eyes snapping in his anger. He turns a glare to Zayn but directs his words to Niall. “Niall, sik hir cun Princess Aliss!”

            Zayn feels the blood drain from his face, unnerved completely by the way Louis has just tossed out Aliss’s name. His eyes dart to Niall once more, who watches him this time with unease of his own.

            “Zayn,” his voice drags over the word, uncertain.

            “What?” Zayn’s voice comes out rough, afraid. He hates it, hates that he can feel Louis glaring at him, can feel Liam gone suddenly still and watchful. “What does he want?”

            Niall bites his lip. “He wants us to ask you about Princess Aliss. He says – he says you spoke with her in the marketplace.”

            He wants to deny it, a childish impulse that he swallows. “I did. She came to see me.”

            It is clear from Niall’s expression this was not the answer he wanted, but he persists. “Why?”

            “We are friends.” Zayn glances at Liam and away again, worried. He had not thought Aliss seeking him out would be a problem. He had not thought it would matter. Foolish, he realizes now. He had forgotten of course that he is not who he once was; he does not belong completely to himself. Still, he tries to explain himself. “We were taught together, when my father would visit Albin or they would visit Hal.”

            Liam speaks suddenly, voice quiet but no less intimidating for it. He speaks to Niall, not even looking to Zayn.

            “What did you speak about?” Niall asks, clearly on Liam’s behalf.

            “My marriage,” Zayn answers and thinks desperately that it is not a lie. They did speak of his marriage, at first. He wants to tell them of the rest, of Aliss’s warning, but he does not have the words, not even for Niall. His throat has gone dry under their obvious suspicion. “She asked me more about our marriage.”

            “More,” Louis’s voice suddenly breaks in. Zayn gapes at him, but Louis’s face is alight with anger. “She speaks more! Pukuin –”

            “Jak! Vulkeyun –” Liam cuts him off.

            “Nk!” Louis turns on his Nalé, slicing the air with his hand in a universal gesture for enough. A stream of Nakizi flows rapidly from his mouth, unintelligible to Zayn in meaning but not tone. Whatever he says outrages those surrounding them though. Zayn hears a hiss race through the Nakizi and feels several eyes snap to him. He shrinks under it, guilty for an unknown sin.

            “Louis, you do not –” Niall tries, but his pale face has gone paler, and he will not look at Zayn.

            “No!” Louis whips around and advances at Zayn. “No, no more! You speak, now. Tell! Ta pukuin, neez –”

            The meaty thump of flesh to flesh reaches Zayn’s ears before he can process what he sees, but even once he does, he cannot believe it. Liam punched Louis, a hard swing to his face that snaps his neck back, and Liam’s fists twist into the leather of Louis’s riding vest to yank him forward.

            Liam’s face is twisted into an unforgiving snarl, and his voice is not loud but so cold that Zayn represses a shiver when he says, “Kezh.”

            Louis wisely does not fight back, but his face floods with color. His anger simmers in his eyes, and blood gathers at his jaw. It will be an impressive bruise in a matter of hours, and Zayn has no doubt that it aches terribly. Louis betrays none of that as he stares back at Liam. “Ta az un suti.”

            Liam shakes him hard, whipping him back and forth as his arms flex with the effort, and Zayn gulps against his dry throat. His husband’s strength is not readily obvious, but he is not hiding it now. “At ta az pulte,” he hisses back before flinging Louis away. “Dec.”

            For a long moment, Zayn thinks that Louis will not. The crowd balances on a knife’s edge waiting, but then Louis shakes his head. He spits at the ground and turns his back. His stride is angry as he walks away, and several others break off to follow him, all casting Zayn suspicious looks.

            Zayn sucks in air like he has not taken a breath for years, his skin cold and clammy like a fever has just broken. His fingers shake, and he wraps them around his leather braided strap to keep them still, clinging to the work he was given.

            Liam watches Louis’s disappearing figure, his face fighting to maintain its blank appearance. When he turns, he looks immediately to Zayn. Nothing in his face speaks of kindness or of the closeness they had experienced earlier that day. His brown eyes are clouded, his mouth downturned.

            “Liam,” Zayn trips over his name.

            It breaks Liam’s stare, and he moves forward, sudden as a snake in the long grass. His hand shoots out to wrap painfully tight around Zayn’s wrist, and he does not pause as he yanks Zayn around.

            Zayn gasps, loudly, and it is a struggle not to yank back. He knows better than to try though as people part around them without comment. Liam’s anger is as good as a sword, threatening any with violence if they dare interrupt.

            “Nalé Liam,” Niall’s voice tries, once.

            Liam does not answer. He raises one hand up, not looking back, and Niall falls silent.

            Zayn feels numb, as though he has dunked himself in cold bathwater during winter. He allows himself to be pulled along, not protesting, even as his wrist flares with pain. Liam had grabbed the one with his leather cuff, and it digs into his skin. Zayn itches to pull Liam’s fingers away, to make sure the bands do not fray.

            They pass the main circle of tents, and Zayn spots the elder woman who had given him the task to distract him.

            “Nalé,” he whispers, tugging gently. He does not wish to seem like he is pulling away, but he needs Liam’s attention. He gets it, Liam turning cold eyes toward him. He holds up the leather strap silently and gestures to the woman. Liam looks between them for a moment, and then he steps closer to the woman, granting permission.

            The woman steps forward to meet them, her own brown eyes dark with displeasure. Zayn cannot tell if it is aimed at him or not, so he does not meet her gaze as he hands her the braided strap back.

            “Gunsuim,” he mutters, hoping she understands his gratitude.

            “Sashuin,” her voice is calm, but when Zayn dares look at her from the corner of his gaze, her eyes are angry. She does not look at him though, but at the Nalé, who pointedly ignores her. She is older than most of the Nakizi that Zayn interacts with but not old, and Zayn had wondered before why she remained among the elders. Watching Liam avoid her eyes, he wonders at what power she holds in the Nakin. Enough to shame the Nalé, perhaps.

            Zayn steps back, tugging on his wrist to indicate that he is done.

            Liam’s fingers tighten around it, and without acknowledging the woman, he pulls Zayn away.

            It does not take Zayn long to realize that Liam pulls them towards their tent. He says  nothing though and does not drag his feet, despite his thrumming heart.

            People linger, shameless in their observation. This late into the day even the hunters have returned to the Nakin, and the vastness of it is obvious when so many people crowd together. Zayn cannot look up without meeting dark eyes, so he does not.

            Liam bursts into the tent, flinging Zayn’s wrist away as soon as they enter. He stalks away, to the back of the tent, and Zayn remains by the door, wary. Irritation rolls of off Liam’s shoulders, and his face is set into a scowl.

            Zayn watches him, head tilted down in a semblance of deference. He can hear Nakizi walking by outside the gaping entrance to their tent, and it puts him further on edge. He wonders what they expect to overhear. Liam paces and ignores him, ignores everything except whatever consumes his mind, and Zayn hates it. He hates that he does not understand his husband when he speaks and cannot begin to guess what he thinks.

            “Liam,” he tries, hopeless.

            “Nk.” It is a short command, and Zayn falls silent under it.

            After another moment, Liam faces him and stares. His dark eyes do not focus on Zayn, and Zayn had not realized how much he has come to rely on Liam’s complete attention, when he has it. Liam looks through him now though.

            Zayn sees the exact moment when Liam comes to a decision because his body language is open for once. His shoulders tense, mouth twisting into a grimace, and he runs both hands through his long hair, disrupting the natural curls and waves. He snarls something to himself, and Zayn can recognize a curse in any language.

            He does not have time to contemplate Liam’s unhappiness though, before his husband is suddenly on him.

            Liam’s large hands wrap tightly around his upper arms, momentum carrying them backwards until they stand directly beside the entrance to their tent. The back of Zayn’s knees smack into the hard edge of a trunk, and he releases a gasp of pain and surprise. Liam’s lips slot into his with no warning, a harsh tangling of lips that Zayn does not expect. He tastes blood on the inside of his lip, the cut flaring as Liam presses with bruising force.

            He breaks the kiss as suddenly as he began it, and Zayn’s mouth feels numb and tender in turns. His head spins, confused as Liam leans his forehead to Zayn’s temple for a moment.

            “Zayn.”

            It is no more than a whisper, Liam’s voice twisting over the word until Zayn cannot guess the emotion behind it.

            Hands on his hips grab his attention, tight as they were on his upper arms, and Zayn is spun. He loses his balance, his own hands smacking into the top of the trunk as he nearly falls across it. Bent in half, he forces himself to keep breathing, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts into order. He cannot before Liam’s hands tighten on his hips again, and they press harder when Zayn tries to straighten.

            He stills, bent over the trunk, back to Liam with Liam’s hands on his hips the only contact between them. The moment seems to expand around them, both loud and silent at once. Zayn does not understand, cannot, until he does all at once. Liam’s fingers fall to the string of his riding leathers, and he knows.

            “Liam –”

            “Nk,” Liam cuts him off, fingers quickly unlacing Zayn’s breeches. “Ta az nem. Nem, Zayn.”

            Zayn opens his mouth, not sure what will come out, but he only sucks in air when Liam yanks his breeches down over his hips. The swell of his ass hits the open air, cold and shocking, his cock trapped behind the tight leather, and his fingers curl into the wood of the trunk, scrapping along it.

            Shifting sounds behind him, before Liam’s hands dig into his hips again. When Liam presses to him, bare skin rubs between them. The hard shape of Liam’s cock as it presses into Zayn is unmistakable, and fear climbs Zayn’s throat, sudden and consuming.

            “Liam!” Zayn can hear that fear in his voice, but he is powerless to control it. He thinks of his wedding night, of the pain he felt, and his entire body tenses. _No,_ he thinks desperately, _no I do not want him to penetrate me._ But desire pools low in his gut, a familiar reaction at Liam's proximity. Zayn chooses to stay still underneath Liam's body.

            Liam says nothing, pressing further against Zayn. His hips begin shifting, restless, his fingers twitching against Zayn’s hips. Zayn thinks, irrationally, that Liam’s handprints will be mapped in bruises over his entire body. Liam grows harder against him as he moves, seeking the friction of Zayn’s bare skin. The drag of it is uncomfortable, their skin too dry, and Zayn’s entire body buzzes. He both wants and does not want to pull away. He does not like the suddenness of Liam's reactions, his silence as he moves against Zayn, but he has missed his husband's touch. He desires a closeness with Liam.

           So he does not resist. He allows Liam to continue, his body teetering on the edge of a knife between fear and arousal. 

            When Liam shifts once more, however, Zayn lets out an audible breath. Liam’s cock slides between Zayn’s cheeks, rubbing over his hole. It is dry, the skin catching, but Zayn feels his cock twitch in response. He has not forgotten his wedding night, has pleasured himself to the memories more times than he wants to admit, and Liam’s actions remind him. His arousal grows. 

            His fingers dig into the wood of the trunk, arms tensing. Liam must feel his reaction because his thrusts suddenly increase. He moves against Zayn, pulling Zayn back against him, cock sliding back and forth. Wetness gathers between them, sweat and precome, and when the head of Liam’s cock catches on Zayn’s hole, Zayn moans, loud and sudden.

            The noise drives Liam on until he shoves hard into Zayn with every movement, his hands pulling Zayn back and forth with him, Zayn’s fingers scrapping painfully against the trunk. Zayn’s cock fills inside of his breeches, trapped underneath the leather until it is uncomfortable. He wants to free himself, but he cannot move without risking falling headfirst onto the trunk. Liam takes no care as he thrusts harder and harder, breathing becoming uneven.

            Zayn thinks of bracing himself on one arm and reaching for himself, fingers twitching to do it, but he stills immediately when he hears the unmistakable noise of people outside their tent. His eyes snap to the opening, still gaping wide, daylight flooding in. His body flashes hot and then cold when he realizes that anyone walking past only has to glance inside to see them.

            “Liam,” he gasps, tensing as anxiety takes him over. He becomes aware of his position, bent over and half-dressed, his ass bare as Liam thrusts against him. He must look desperate, Liam completely in control of him. The thought of others seeing him makes his heart race, stomach twisting even as his cock twitches again.  He cannot tell if he likes it or fears it, the idea of others seeing him like this. Does he like having so little control? Does he want others to see him like this?

            “Ta az nem,” Liam growls, bending over him suddenly and biting hard at the back of Zayn’s neck. Zayn’s back arches, surprise making him shout as arousal floods him unexpectedly. He likes the sharp pain. Liam thrusts harder, losing his rhythm. His cock catches hard at Zayn’s hole, causing a brief flash of pain. Liam continues to move, fast, hard, thoughtless, and Zayn squirms underneath him. It is all too much, the pain and pleasure, Liam’s rough treatment, the people outside who can undoubtedly see them. Zayn cannot ignore any of it, and his arousal continues to grow despite his misgivings. The contradicting feelings only seem to heighten his pleasure.

            “Nem,” Liam repeats, fierce and sure.

            _Mine,_ Zayn thinks, finally placing the word. It connects in his mind, the bruising grips, the bites, the tent left open. Liam is claiming him. Hot and cold flashes through him again, arousal still thrumming even as his stomach twists. He does not know how to feel as he scrambles against the trunk, his fingers raw with it. He thinks he could stop this, if he spoke, but he bites his tongue.

            “Ta az nem, nen zishun, nem,” Liam hunches over him, thrusting. His teeth scrape over Zayn’s shoulder, and one of his hands leaves Zayn’s hip to wrap firmly over his chest. It gives Liam better leverage, Liam’s cock trapped between his stomach and Zayn’s lower back.

            “T-tar,” Zayn gasps back, understanding at last what Liam desires. “E iz tar.”

            Liam shudders, fingers digging hard into Zayn’s skin, his last thrust shoving Zayn painfully into the edges of the trunk. Come hits Zayn’s lower back, warm and shocking as Liam moves through his pleasure.

            When Liam’s hand slips to Zayn’s cock, he presses his heel hard. “Nem,” he repeats, sure and demanding. His fingers wrap around Zayn’s length through the leather, and he strips Zayn’s cock hard and fast. Zayn wants it; he wants Liam's hand; he wants, he wants, he wants -

Zayn comes, sudden and shocking, as brutal as it is quick.

            Liam pulls away after, but Zayn does not turn to watch him. Zayn’s eyes stay fixed on the open doorway of the tent, his entire body twitching like he has not come at all. Every inch of his skin tingles, and he feels breathless and alive. His fingertips are brutalized by the wood of the trunk, and his body aches. Confusion covers everything, and he is left dumb with surprise.

            When he can think, his first thought almost makes him wish he could not think at all. Liam had kissed him; it was their first kiss.

            Zayn’s sore fingers dig into the trunk, and he welcomes the sharp stabs of pain. 

* * *

 

            The dragons sleep towards the eastern edge of the Nakin. Zayn had noticed early on, and when he had asked Niall about it, the man had smiled and replied that they always slept in whatever direction the canyons lay. Niall had then told Zayn the legend of the dragons’ beginning, one that Zayn had never heard.

            The legend claims that the dragon eggs originated in the canyons. Found in one of the Nakizi mines by a warrior falsely accused of murdering his brother, the first dragon egg gleamed like a ruby. When the warrior touched its hard shell, the dragon within whispered to him. If the man fed and cared for the dragon, the dragon would help him gain his freedom. The dragon become the brother the warrior had lost. The warrior agreed, and, with the dragon’s whispered instructions, he hatched the beast. Hidden in the mines where the warrior was forced to work, the dragon grew up in darkness and learned to breathe fire to see and live by. When the dragon reached its full size, it told the warrior it was time, so the warrior climbed aboard its back. Bursting from the canyon mines, the dragon laid waste to the Nakin who had falsely imprisoned his rider, scorching the canyon walls black. When a nearby Nakin saw the smoke, they travelled, and when they came upon the scorched earth, only the dragon and his rider still stood. Immediately the Nakin swore allegiance to the warrior, settling down on the blackened earth for the winter so they could learn the ways of the dragon. And so, Cazikan and the Nakin aez Draza were born. As time passed, more Nakins came and learned, so that Cazikan become the communal city of the Nakizi.

            It is not entirely different from the legend Zayn had grown up hearing, which begins with the Cities. When the Cities were first founded, one of the Great Kings travelled throughout Kiza, searching for a way to ensure his City’s continued safety. Unwilling to fall again to the wars that had plagued the land before the Cities were formed, the king travelled for years. One day, he stumbled across what he thought was a rock. For reasons he could not explain, he carried the rock with him as he travelled, and he spoke to it of his fears and hopes. The rock, as a part of Kiza, hearing his honest intentions, decided to grant him what he sought, and so it cracked open and a dragon emerged. This dragon, the grey color of Kiza’s great canyons, swore its power to the king in return for respect and companionship. So, the king returned to his city where he called the other Kings to him and taught them how to earn their own. Hearing of this king who would share his knowledge, the Nalé of a weak Nakin travelled to his city and begged the king for aid. Sensing the Nalé’s pure intentions, the king granted him the knowledge and so the Nakin aez Draza was born. Centuries later, when the dragons became too great for the Cities and too unstable for the kings, the descendant of that Nalé came to the descendant of the king and offered him a deal. Every year the Nakizi would travel around Kiza and deliver goods in exchange for taking the dragons to the canyons, where they could be free. The king agreed, and so the Nakizi became the riders of dragons, the canyons becoming their home.

            Zayn does not know which legend he believes, if either, but as he picks his way towards the dragons in complete darkness that night, he thinks some truth must be buried among these legends. The dragons clearly feel drawn to their canyon home, just as Zayn feels drawn to Fraeyn.

            He had laid in his bed of furs from the time Liam left, but sleep had never found him. A tugging at his gut had eventually urged him out, the quiet camp unfolding around him. Not all of the Nakizi sleep at night, but Zayn avoids the small fire pits where they gather. When he passes Nakizi warriors who guard the Nakin at night, he ducks his head and does not meet their eyes.

            Now that he nears the edges of camp, he looks around more freely, waiting to see the great shadow shapes of Fraeyn and Ossium. A slithering noise through the dirt behind him warns Zayn with just enough time to turn, and he comes face to face with his dragon.

            Fraeyn releases a huff of steam, golden eyes narrowing, and Zayn laughs.

            “Sorry,” he whispers, unwilling to raise his voice and perhaps draw attention. “Did I ruin your surprise?”

            His dragon looks back at him, unimpressed, and Zayn has to bite back another laugh. The tight knot that has been lodged in his chest all evening eases as he stares at Fraeyn.

            Slowly he raises one hand up, open-palmed and unthreatening. Fraeyn sniffs at it, like a dog, before she obligingly presses her snout to his palm. Zayn sighs and rubs her scales, allowing himself to relax into her strangely familiar warmth. He has not interacted with her more than a handful of times, touched her even less perhaps, but Fraeyn feels like home to him. She is the least complicated part of his life, the one part that makes him still feel like himself.

            As Zayn strokes her snout, he studies her. She gleams in the night, even with the nearest fires some distance away. Smoke drifts lazily from her nostrils, like always. The last he had seen of her was that morning when he had sent her away. He almost wishes he had climbed on her back and let her carry him away as well. Flying on Fraeyn’s back, becoming a rider in truth, is a desire that sinks deep into his gut and mind until he wishes for it and nothing else. He knows though that he is not yet allowed.

            The reasons why he does not understand completely, but Niall had explained parts of it to him. Though Fraeyn had chosen him in Hal, she would not be his dragon nor he her rider until they had taken part in a ceremony in Cazikan. Usually the claiming ceremony, where the dragons choose their riders, Zayn still must complete some part of it before the Nakin will truly acknowledge his status. He has often wondered if his in-between position adds to the Nakizi’s distrust of him, or if that is just another excuse for them to dislike him so openly. He has no answer of course, just as he has no way to ride and bond with Fraeyn until they reach the canyons. It itches along his skin, but Zayn accepts it, because he must.

            He has resigned himself to these small interactions and touches, and as he continues to pet Fraeyn, he thinks it is more than he had ever thought he would have.

            With a sudden huff, Fraeyn raises her nose and nudges at Zayn’s fingertips. He stills at the move, curious, and when he meets Fraeyn’s eyes he thinks he sees that curiosity reflected.

            “What?” he wonders. Fraeyn nudges at his fingers again, her forked tongue snaking out for just a moment to flick against one of his fingertips. Zayn looks, confused, and then he sees the injuries. They are not obvious, and he wonders how Fraeyn knew they were there. Perhaps her sense of smell is elevated, excellent enough to smell the small tears in Zayn’s fingers where the wood of the trunk had rubbed his skin raw.

            “Oh,” he sighs out, curling his fingers into fists and then uncurling them. The skin pulls as he flexes his hands, and he stares at it. He had noticed the cuts as soon as Liam had left their tent, but he had not done more for them than washing them out and pulling any splinters free. He had not wanted to look at the marks for very long, and he still does not. They bring thoughts and memories forward that he does not wish to contemplate.

            Fraeyn’s tongue flicks out again, dragging over his middle finger. Zayn starts but does not pull away. Though rough, her tongue does not hurt him. The cuts do not ache more than they have all evening at any rate.

            Zayn smiles at her, small but honest. “They are nothing.”

            Fraeyn stares at him, and he swears he can see disbelief in her eyes.

            “I promise,” he smiles more genuinely.

            Fraeyn huffs but presses into his palm, clearly asking to be pet once more. Zayn takes this for her acceptance and pets her.

            “Thank you,” he whispers, thinking that he at least has one being here who cares about him.

            He continues to pet Fraeyn, tracing her fine scales, for some time. The thought that he could sleep here, if he could convince her to lay down, enters his mind after a while, and he contemplates it.

            Fraeyn’s head suddenly snaps up, disrupting Zayn’s thoughts. He tenses, body language unconsciously mirroring Fraeyn’s. Her wings extend enough to make her shoulders seem wider, and she stares behind him.

            Zayn turns, but he sees nothing beyond the shadows, dark and thick on the edges of the Nakin. “Ossium?” he tries, wondering if perhaps the other dragon has wandered up to them, but the grey dragon does not emerge from the shadows.

            Fraeyn shifts behind him, smoke growing thicker as she snorts like an unnerved horse. Zayn makes sure to stay in her space, even as he searches the dark for whatever has grabbed her attention.

            A shadow shifts suddenly, and Zayn blinks hard, his mind unable to comprehend what he is seeing at first. He stares as the shadow moves, sliding forward. Two yellow spots gleam, and Zayn gapes as he looks into eyes a few shades different from Fraeyn’s. The shadow realigns itself into a familiar shape, and Zayn gazes suddenly at another dragon.

            The beast’s body is black, darker somehow than the night surrounding it, and its scales do not gleam the way Fraeyn’s and Ossium’s do. The only part of it that catches light are those eyes, firmly fixed on Zayn.

He backs further into Fraeyn, her head coming down so that her neck wraps partially around him in a move similar to the one from Hal, when she had played with Ossium. He does not think Fraeyn is playing now, as more smoke billows from her nostrils, and she releases a low noise in warning.

            The dragon moves forward, heedless, and Zayn realizes that though it is not as big as Ossium, it is larger than Fraeyn. Xohen, he realizes. This dragon must be the third, the one that was born with Ossium.

            It is, he remembers, Louis’s dragon.

            Fraeyn releases another low warning sound, like a growl but lower, and Xohen’s eyes slide from Zayn to her. The dragon looks distinctly unimpressed as it blinks dispassionately at Fraeyn.

            Zayn does not know what he should do, and he freezes when Xohen’s eyes fall back to him. He has always thought the dragons looked like snakes and lizards, but Xohen bears more of a resemblance to them than Fraeyn or Ossium. Xohen’s head dips, long neck extending, and Zayn realizes that the dragon intends to come for him, like a snake about to strike.

            A sudden flare of light bursts just over Zayn’s shoulder, heat briefly brushing one side of his body, and he turns his eyes from the brightness. When he looks back, he sees fire disappear into the air where Xohen’s large head had been. The black dragon has pulled back, dispassion exchanged for anger.

            Fraeyn makes her warning noise again, and Zayn feels his mouth fall open when he sees the smoke trailing from her mouth, thicker than he’s ever seen. His mind does not want to accept that the fire he saw had come from his dragon, but the evidence exists between them all. Fraeyn breathes fire; Zayn had not realized dragons could truly do that. He certainly has not heard of a dragon who could, outside of the oldest myths and legends.

            Xohen’s neck twists once more, and Zayn tenses.

            “Xohen!” The voice jumps through the air, and the black dragon pulls back instantly.

            Zayn’s gratitude lasts for only a moment before the figure comes into view. Louis glares at him from beside Xohen’s shoulder.

            “Neez,” he snarls.

            Zayn stiffens and wishes he had an insult to fling back, but his own ignorance silences him.

            Louis stares at them, his blue eyes as cold and unreadable as his dragon’s. He barks a question at Zayn that Zayn cannot hope to understand. When Zayn says nothing, Louis’s anger grows.

            “Pukuin,” he spits. “City whore. Stupid.”

            “Fuck you,” Zayn snaps, curse falling from his lips without thought. Louis stiffens, and Zayn realizes it does not matter if Louis can understand Core or not. Anyone can recognize a curse; Zayn himself has proven that.

            He becomes aware of the sword clutched in Louis’s fist only when Louis’s hand convulses around it. Zayn struggles not to recoil further into Fraeyn’s warmth as he stares at the deadly weapon, remembering all too easily the grace with which Louis had fought at his wedding. It seems a joke that Louis had fought for the right to marry them when his hatred of Zayn is so obvious.

            “You are nothing,” Louis hisses, his accent pulling strangely at the words, but they are perfectly clear. “I should kill.”

            Zayn tilts his chin up. “Liam would –”

            Louis hisses, the mention of Liam’s name only increasing his anger as it always seems to do. “The Nalé is fool. Pretty face distracts.”

            Zayn flushes, angry that Louis reduces him to nothing but his looks and angry that Louis thinks Liam would be so shallow. “The Nalé deserves respect, and I am his husband. Zishun.”

            Louis’s lips pull back in a grimace. “You are jewel. Liam tires of trophies.”

            The words dig deeper than Zayn would like, hitting on all his insecurities. He is used to being called pretty, to being valued for his looks, but he is not used to being treated as nothing more than a prize. A trophy, like Louis says, and Zayn knows how quickly men tire of trophies once their victory has worn off. He hates that his marriage might be the same. It does not seem a question of if Liam will tire of him but _when_ he will. After all, Zayn has not managed to inspire much in his husband, nothing like devotion. He and Liam have spent more days apart than together.

            Louis grins when Zayn does not respond. “Yes. You know. Liam tires and who protects?”

            Zayn does not want to listen, but he cannot help but think that Louis has a point. When Liam finishes with Zayn, when he stops paying even these small attentions to him, Zayn will have no one. He will be nothing. Liam can remove his band at any moment, and Zayn will be vulnerable to all of those who hate him. He is not naïve enough to believe his guards’ loyalty would remain, that Niall’s friendship would stay. If Liam leaves him, Zayn truly will be nothing and no one.

            “I –”

            “Louis.”

            The word is spoken calmly, and though for a moment Zayn believes it is Liam, come to save him once more, he realizes he does not recognize the voice.

            Another man steps towards them, standing between where Fraeyn guards Zayn and where Louis stands beside Xohen. Zayn recognizes him once his eyes adjust. The curly hair and lanky build give him away, and Zayn casts about for his name before he remembers that it is Harry.

            Harry glances back and forth between them, green eyes wary but nothing else. He turns to Louis and quietly asks him something. Nakizi sounds gentle on his tongue, and Zayn stares as both the dragons seems to relax and withdraw. He glances to Fraeyn who has dropped her posturing and stares at Harry with familiarity. Remembering that Harry brought Fraeyn to him at his wedding only proves to Zayn that Fraeyn is familiar with him; it does not explain why both she and Xohen seem to like the man.

            Louis as well has dropped his anger, though he glares at Harry as he answers. Zayn catches slurs against him, unsurprised, but he watches Harry’s reaction, curious.

            Harry frowns at Louis. “Ta az un suti. Liam ez ynei.”

            Louis snaps back at him, furious, but Harry watches him calmly until Louis stops speaking.

            “Jak,” Harry shakes his head. “Ta –”

            Louis cuts him off, harsh and angry.

            Harry sighs. “Louis –”

            But Louis grunts at him and walks away, sword slipping into his sheath.

            “Louis!” Harry calls after him, brow wrinkling. Zayn is not surprised when Louis does not turn around, but Harry looks hurt by it. Xohen bends his head, dipping it towards Harry, who pets him without thought. Zayn stares, but it is clearly nothing unusual.

            “Gunsuim,” Harry murmurs to the dragon. “Dec. Saisha pez hic.”

            Xohen moves, fluid as the shadows that he blends into. Zayn watches him follow Louis, surprised that the dragon obeys Harry’s commands. He thinks Xohen is following Harry’s commands at least; he recognized some of what Harry said.

            When Harry turns back towards him, Zayn cannot help the way he withdraws slightly.

            Harry notices, but he says nothing. “Are you well?”

            Zayn starts. “I – you speak Core?”

            Harry frowns at him and then looks bothered when something occurs to him. “Does no one speak Core to you?”

            “Niall.”

            This answer, though obvious to Zayn, is not what Harry expects. His brow does not unfurrow, and his green eyes appear troubled.

            Something like foreboding curls in Zayn’s gut. “Do many Nakizi speak Core?” He had thought Niall was the only one who spoke it. The traders, he knows, understand enough to barter, but the Nakizi seem uninterested in learning the language.

            “No,” Harry shakes his head, and his expression clears. “Niall speaks it the best, but a few others do as well.”

            “Like you.”

            Harry nods. “I speak Core well enough.”

            Zayn wonders why, when Harry is so clearly of Nakizi descent, but he does not ask. Harry is being kind to him, and he does not want to risk that. He does wonder though why he has not seen more of the man. With his build, he could be a warrior, and Zayn remembers the way he had interacted with Liam at the wedding. If he had thought about it then, he would have assumed Harry was one of Liam’s vulkezi, his trusted guard. Yet he has not seen Harry with Liam at all, as far as he can remember.

            “Are you –”

            “Why does he hate me?” Zayn blurts, cutting off whatever Harry might have asked.

            The green-eyed man blinks at him, and Zayn thinks of apologizing but does not. When it becomes clear that Zayn will not retract the statement, Harry sighs. He looks towards where Louis disappeared. “He does not hate you.”

            “He calls me…” Zayn trails off, because he does not wish to say the words. Enough people call him those names without him voicing them.

            Harry winces, like he knows, and Zayn wonders if anyone in the Nakin does not know what Louis and his companions think of Zayn. He wonders how many agree with them. “He does not hate you,” Harry repeats, firm. “He is… pulte. Jealous.”

            Zayn recognizes the word, remembers Liam calling Louis pulte this afternoon when they had fought in the center of camp. His gut twists, angry and hurt, when he realizes that Liam had been calling Louis jealous. He opens his mouth to ask what Louis could be jealous of, but then he thinks about what it means that Harry and Liam call Louis jealous when he insults Zayn.

            They mean that Louis is jealous of Zayn.

            The thought is ridiculous. Zayn has nothing for Louis to be jealous of, nothing except –

            Zayn’s stomach twists, hard, bile rising in his throat when he thinks about Louis’s place at Liam’s side. He thinks of Louis’s cold looks during the wedding, and his apparent anger whenever Zayn spends any amount of time beside Liam. It makes an awful sense to him suddenly.

            “Zayn –”

            “Gunsuim,” Zayn interrupts, making himself meet Harry’s eyes. “Thank you, for defending me.”

            Harry looks at him, uncertain, but Zayn can see when he decides not to push. His eyes have been drifting towards where Louis disappeared, and Zayn knows that Harry wants to follow. “Sashuin,” Harry answers.

            Harry whistles, high, and a low rumble sounds from the shadows. Zayn thinks it is Xohen, and Harry follows the noise, leaving Fraeyn and Zayn behind.

            She nudges her head into his shoulder, and Zayn raises a hand to pet her without thought. He catches sight of his fingertips when he does and stares.

            He thinks that Louis would be strong enough to take such a small pain, stronger than him. Zayn fists his hand, hiding his injuries, and resolves to think of nothing.

            Thinking does him no good. 

* * *

 

            Zayn cuts another strip of cloth, grateful for the sharp edges of his Nakizi dagger. The cloth, given to him by the same Nakizi woman who had given him the leather to braid, is thick, like most Nakizi clothing, and the task is hard enough on his fingers without having to saw through the material. Ani had offered to help, when it became obvious that the woman had given it to Zayn so he could wrap his fingertips, but Zayn declined. Even as he bleeds over the cloth, he is determined to do this for himself. He is tired of relying on others, especially when he knows he will not always be able to.

            His guards’ loyalty is to Liam first. They had proven this yesterday, when they had stood behind Liam’s guards, and though Zayn does not blame them, he does not trust them the same way he had. He cannot.

            When Liam grows tired of him, when the war with Banshia either happens or does not, Zayn will be on his own among the Nakin. He needs to begin relying on himself.

            He cuts another strip and pauses to wrap two more of his fingers. Sticking his knife in the ground beside him, he ignores the way his guard watches him. The entire camp is packing up around them, everyone working except for the traders who have set up a short distance away. Some Albinians have come to trade while they still can, and Zayn knows that Liam is with them, to watch over his people. Zayn’s guard should be there too, protecting their own, but Liam was gone when Zayn had returned to his tent that morning, Zayn’s guard left behind.

            He does not allow himself to think about Liam’s avoidance of him. What occurred between them yesterday troubles him, for his reaction to Liam’s actions just as much as the actions themselves. His relationship to Liam is complicated, and he does not wish to think about it, not today.

            Today, he resolves to think of nothing. Once Zayn wraps his fingertips, sore and raw, he will begin assisting with the dismantling of the camp. Their swift departure is, after all, his fault, and he will not sit idly by and watch others work for him.

            “Zayn,” Kaz’s voice catches in the middle of Zayn’s name, his accent breaking it into two distinctive sounds. Zayn raises his head, curious about what prompts his quietest guard to speak. Liam and Louis push through the center of the camp, heading towards Zayn with Niall trailing behind them. He thinks of rising but remains seated. Liam never demands his respect, and Louis does not deserve it.

            “Zayn, anshiayn,” Liam calls, voice carrying over the clamor of the camp. Zayn struggles not to react to the compliment, surprised at Liam’s proclamation, but he inclines his head to convey his attention.

            Liam speaks, and Niall translates. “We will be departing after the midday meal, the rest of the Nakin following as they finish their tasks.”

            Zayn nods. “I will be ready to depart.” He turns back to his task, tying off a strip around one finger before he pulls the cloth back into his lap. His fingers wrap around the handle of his knife, but Liam’s voice halts his movement.

             “Da tec?”

              When Zayn looks, squinting against the sun which haloes Liam’s head and casts his face into shadow, Liam gestures to the cloth in his lap. Tangling his fingers into it, Zayn does not keep his eyes on Liam when he answers, “Cloth. To wrap my hands.”

               Niall’s translation trails off when the shadows change. Zayn glances up to watch Liam kneel in front of him, brown eyes serious as he reaches for one of Zayn’s hands. His blunt fingers turn Zayn’s hand palm up, and he inspects the raw scrapes. When he reaches to touch the tip of one, Zayn pulls back enough to avoid it.

              “Sorry,” he speaks quietly. “They hurt when I press against something.”

             Liam frowns, and Zayn knows that Liam understands where the cuts have come from. “E hiz tec.”

           Zayn says nothing, and Liam sighs. His fingers curl around Zayn’s hand, brief pressure, before he releases it and reaches for the cloth. Zayn blinks, wondering if his husband truly intends to help him, but when Liam reaches for the knife as well, a shout stops him.

           “Nalé!”

            Everyone turns to Ezra, whose shout echoes with panic. The young boy stares at the knife, his face pale. A torrent of Nakizi escapes his mouth, nervous and quick. Zayn, of course, understands nothing, but he notices when everyone tenses. Liam’s hand pulls slowly away from the knife, and he barks a question at Ezra.

           Ezra casts a guilty look towards Zayn, but he repeats what he had said.

           “Liam –” Louis’s hand has fallen to the pommel of his sword, and his voice edges toward anger once more.

           Liam shakes his head to silence Louis, and he rises, looking troubled. His eyes flick from the knife to Zayn, but his worried expression does not change. “Niall.”

           Niall steps forward, frowning but more willing than he was the day before.

           “What?” Zayn demands.

          “Ezra says Princess Aliss touched your knife yesterday.”

           Zayn reaches for it but halts when Louis hisses. The slide of Louis’s sword halfway drawn makes Zayn hesitate and speak first. “She commented on the Nakizi blade and asked why I carried it instead of the whip I favor.”

         “Is that all she did?” Niall presses.

         “Yes,” Zayn stands slowly, leaving the knife buried in the ground. Irritation dances under his skin, but he ignores it. He has missed something important. “Why?”

          Niall pauses for only a moment before he admits, “Ezra is worried that she may have poisoned it.”

          Zayn feels sick and cannot look at his youngest guard. His fists clench at his sides, and he bites his tongue to keep from snapping something back. He cannot believe his own guard thinks his knife carries poison, as though Zayn would stab Liam at Aliss’s request, but clearly the others do not find this idea so irrational. Zayn’s voice is terse to cover his hurt when he says, “She did not draw it from my side.”

         Niall questions Ezra who hesitates before shaking his head. When Liam repeats the question to the rest of Zayn’s guard, Zayn turns his head. He glares at the knife, which had seemed so kind a gift just the day before. The sight of its gleaming jewel mocks him now.

         “Zayn,” Niall sounds apologetic, and Zayn braces himself for whatever unpleasantness follows. “None of your guards can confirm that she did not hold it.”

          “I can confirm it!” Zayn snaps, voice raising out of his control. Hurt flares in his chest, and he does not remember the last time he felt so distrusted. Niall does not have to tell him that his word is not enough, Louis’s frantic speaking does that for Niall. Louis clearly argues, trying to convince Liam of something, and Zayn watches as Liam appears torn.

         “What?” he asks Niall, when Liam says nothing, and Louis continues speaking. “What does he desire now?” Niall hesitates, but Zayn tires of this already. He will not prolong this issue, not if he can do something to prove his innocence. His heart twists that he must prove it at all, but he has noticed that Liam avoids looking at him. One word from his guard, and Zayn carries no trustworthiness here. “Niall,” Zayn pushes all the command he mastered as a prince into his voice.

          “Louis is demanding that we test the knife.”

          Zayn’s hands flex, and he shakes his head. Hurt continues to snake around his gut, but he ignores that as well. “Fine, then I will test it on myself.”

          He moves quick enough that he cannot be stopped, and he does not look up when someone shouts in surprise. The sound of multiple swords being drawn from their leather echoes around him, but Zayn wraps his hand firmly around his knife and brings it to his bare forearm. The glint of its blade is blinding, and Zayn tries not to think of how sharp its bite will be.

         “Zayn!”

          Zayn halts, the edge nearly to his skin, and his jaw clenches. He should just cut himself, prove that no poison lies on his blade, but the voice was Liam’s. When he looks up, Liam stares at him, eyes wide.

         “You want to test it,” Zayn speaks to Niall but does not look away from Liam. Let his husband watch as Zayn proves himself, again. “Tell him I will test it on myself then.”

           Niall does, and Liam studies Zayn. Zayn does not flinch, but Liam shakes his head.

          “Nk, nkd tec.” He moves forward and gestures Ezra to him. The young guard goes, fear in his eyes, and it contrasts with the firm resolve on Liam’s face. Liam draws up beside Zayn before he turns to face Ezra, and one heavy hand slaps onto Ezra’s shoulder. He presses down, and Ezra kneels, confused but obedient. “Ta,” Liam states, calm but commanding as he issues an order in Nakizi.

         “Nalé –” Fear breaks through Ezra’s voice.

         “Jak,” Liam snaps. He holds out a hand to Zayn, for the knife. “Ta gav haz tec.”

         Ezra nods his head, scared eyes falling to the ground, and Zayn stares.

          “Zayn.” Liam holds his hand out once more, demanding the knife.

         Zayn’s fingers clench around it. “Niall, what is he going to do?”

          “Liam will test the knife by cutting Ezra.”

         “No.” The denial is quick and sure, out before Zayn can think it through, but even as he does, his answer does not change. His fingers clench tighter around the knife, and he does not remove it from near his arm. “No.”

         Liam stares at him, shocked.

         “Zayn –”

         “Nk! No!” Zayn shouts, his heart pounding. He looks to Ezra, who stares up at him with wide, fearful eyes. He is so young, and he is so afraid. His hands shake where they press against his knees, and Zayn hates to see him kneeling before them. It does not matter if Ezra had accused him; Ezra is his guard. Ezra is his, one of the few Nakizi who have ever acknowledged Zayn at all.

       “Zayn,” Niall hisses. “You are making this worse. It will only be a cut.”

        He does not care.

        “Zayn.” Liam’s voice is hard and angry, and when Zayn looks at him, Liam’s brown eyes snap. He thrusts his hand out for the knife, leaving no room for argument.

          Zayn meet his gaze, and he knows that he cannot allow this. He will not allow this. He slashes downward, and gasps when the sting is sharper than he imagined. He has cut himself. The knife falls to the ground, everyone exclaiming around them, and blood wells up before Zayn can clamp a hand over his arm. He pushes his fingers over it, trying to stem the flow of blood and ruining his cloth bandages, but he can see that the cut was not too long or deep. He nicked himself more than cut.

          When he looks up, Niall and Louis gape at him, shocked into stillness and silence. His guard too watches him with expressions of shock and wariness. He focuses on Liam though, who stares back at him calmly.

       “You will not hurt others because of or for me.” The words rise from somewhere deep within Zayn, and he is surprised by how right they feel. He does not care if Liam cannot understand; he needs to say this. “You will punish me or no one.

       He looks to Ezra, kneeling and heaving deep breaths of air. His eyes are wet. “He is my guard. Nen vulkezi. No one will hurt my people.”

        Liam looks back at him, brown eyes evaluating, but eventually he inclines his head. When he looks back at Zayn, Zayn swears he sees something like pride in Liam’s expression.    

* * *

            They depart after the midday meal, and Zayn bids Ezra to ride at his side. He feels the others watching him, eyeing his cut and his posture. They wait for some hint of poison, so Zayn rides with his back straight and more grace than he has before. If they will stare at him, let them see him for who he is.

            By the time the long grass threatens to swallow the sun, it is apparent that no poison existed on Zayn’s knife, and most of those who witnessed their scene in the camp have lost interest.

            When Ezra leans over and quietly whispers his thanks, Zayn shakes his head. He does not deserve thanks for an event that should never have occurred. He pulls the knife from his side and holds it, hilt out, for Ezra to take.

            “Tar,” he gestures. He does not want it any longer, not when he remembers Liam’s initial joy over it, tainted by his suspicion. Zayn would never see the knife again but let Ezra keep it, if he wants it.

            Ezra wraps a steady hand around the knife, and Zayn puts the event behind him. 

* * *

          When the Nakin stops at midday days later, Zayn dismounts and flexes his forearm. He wraps the cut regularly, and looking at the dirty bandage, he thinks he may have to change it once more. The road to Xa becomes dustier with every day. The grasslands thin out around them, and Zayn finds it troubles him. He has never been this far east, where no plant life grows tall enough to shield. He cannot imagine what Xa will look like, without the grasslands or the trees to surround it.

            “Zayn,” Ezra appears beside him, taking the reins of Zayn’s mare. His young guard has been more attentive since the morning they left Albin. Zayn hates that he feels the need, but he cannot find a way to dissuade him. It is not only Ezra either; his entire guard has been more helpful on this leg of their journey. Zayn ignores the change for the most part.

            His guards’ behavior is not the only change however, and the other one is harder to ignore.

            Liam now dines with Zayn.

            It is not a large change, but it is worthy of notice, if only because it clearly means something to the Nakizi. The first full day of their journey, when Liam had ridden back from the front once they had stopped, Zayn had thought something had occurred, but Liam had dismounted and then joined Zayn. They had eaten their cold food in the quick fashion of the Nakizi midday meal, and then Liam had returned to the front of the Nakin.

            Liam has done the same every day since.

            They do not speak much, and the interactions remind Zayn of the awkward way Doniya and her husband had interacted when their courtship began. He does not mind it though, not even when the Nakizi blatantly watch them. Zayn does not ask about the significance of Liam finding him for meals, but he revels in his husband spending time with him. The small gesture helps smooth over the tension between them.

            As Zayn’s guards settle down on their saddle blankets for today’s midday meal, spread on the ground along the path they follow, Zayn turns his gaze toward the front of the Nakin. He sees Liam riding toward them and smiles. When Liam settles beside him, Zayn offers an apple, purchased from Albin. Liam brushes his fingers as he takes it.

            They pass the meal in companionable silence, letting the wash of conversation around them ease any awkwardness. Niall spins some tale for Ani and Kaz, while Ezra discusses what Zayn believes are weapons with Eli. He finds these meals calming now, in a way he did not before Liam began to join him.

            Zayn does not know what signal alerts the Nakin that their travel must continue, but he recognizes the signs when his time with Liam has finished. The Nakizi never linger long for their midday meal. His guards collect the debris, and Zayn takes the offered hand Liam extends once he stands. When Liam pulls him up, he does not release Zayn immediately, extending one hand to trace along Zayn’s cheek. The gesture, like Liam’s company, has become familiar.

            “Nalé,” Louis calls, astride his own horse. Somedays, he joins Liam, silent and sullen. Others he simply comes to find him when the Nakin must move on. Zayn refuses to interact with Louis, and he thinks this arrangement works better for them. If he is surprised that Louis ignores him, he keeps it to himself.

             Today another man has come with Louis, and when Zayn catches his eye by accident, the man glowers at him. Zayn turns his gaze, not surprised. Though most of the Nakizi ignore him, apathetic by now to his presence, some still dislike him openly. A handful of days on the road has not changed everything.

            “Unte nubemiem, Zayn,” Liam tells him, calling Zayn’s attention back.

              Zayn smiles and ducks his head in acquiescence. “Unte nubemiem.”

             Liam moves surely away, confidence in the broad set of his shoulders. He has foregone the riding vest today, so that the breadth of him is uninterrupted. Sweat gleams along the ridges of his musculature, and his hair is gathered in a knot towards the top of his head. A belt of solid gold discs adorns his hips, one of the only concessions Zayn has seen Liam make to his status. Watching him, Zayn feels proud and the stirrings of arousal in his abdomen are not unwelcome.

               A snort breaks his gaze, and Zayn looks toward the noise before he can think better of it. The man beside Louis smirks at him, gaze turning leering once Liam is past and can no longer see. His eyes rake up and down Zayn’s form, and Zayn recoils. He recognizes the man suddenly, as one who often accompanies Louis. He was there the day Louis confronted Zayn, and like on that day, he does nothing to disguise his desire as he stares at Zayn.

            “Neez.”

           Zayn freezes, cold washing through him. He had thought, naively, that word behind him, but he sees his mistake. Men like this one will always see beauty as a commodity that Zayn dares to have; something that they can purchase or take, making him a whore.

            He looks away, to avoid the man’s disgusting expression, and so he misses what happens. The thud of something hitting the ground grabs his attention though, and when he glances back up, the man is flat on his back in the dirt, Liam standing over him.

            Zayn gapes at the raw fury in Liam’s expression. When Liam snarls something at the man, Zayn does not need to comprehend the words to understand. Liam had heard.

            Niall appears beside Zayn, and Zayn realizes that they have already drawn a crowd. The surrounding Nakizi have pressed in, so that a circle forms around where the man struggles to his feet, and Liam watches in disgust.

            When Liam begins speaking once more, Zayn touches Niall’s elbow. The blonde understands and begins whispering to Zayn. “Liam asks him what he said.”

            The man, on his feet, his back red with the dust of the road, spits at Liam’s feet. The crowd jeers, and Louis slips from his horse.

            “Tell me,” Niall whispers when Liam’s lips move. Zayn can hardly hear Liam over the clamor of the crowd, growing more restless by the moment. It reminds Zayn of his wedding, and he struggles to listen to Niall’s translation of Liam’s words. “Tell me what you said.”

            Louis reaches for his friend, but the man shakes him off. Louis’s eyes flash to Liam, and all at once he moves away.

            Zayn understands Louis’s retreat a moment later when the man speaks.

            “Neez!” he shouts, reckless in his anger. The crowd hushes, expectant, and the man grins, as though pandering to an audience. “Tar zishun ez neez. Tar neez!”

            Liam does not react, and this enrages the man further.

            “Neez! Nen neez, eh?”

            Laughter races around the crowd, and Zayn’s face burns when several Nakizi glance towards him. He does not ask Niall to translate; he remembers well enough. He is smart enough, too, to realize that this man has made a mistake. He might have walked away from this without a fight before; he will not now.

            Liam strides forward, voice low and dark. “Apologize, now. To me and to my husband. You forget yourself, vermin.” Niall’s translation grips Zayn’s gut.

            The man backs away slowly, attempting to mask his movements as intentional rather than a retreat. His hand falls to his sword, and Liam stills. The man grins, like he has won.

            When Liam speaks, the crowd quiets around them, and Niall’s voice is clear in Zayn’s ear. “If you touch your sword, you must mean to fight.”

            The killing bands wrapped around Liam’s arm gleam, dark and obvious. The man facing him lacks even half Liam’s number, and he knows it. His eyes dart around though, catching on the crowd, and Zayn feels a moment of dark premonition.

            “E gakezi ta per Nalé!”

            The crowd roars, and Zayn’s stomach drops. Liam smiles, fierce and dangerous.

            “Niall.” It is not a question, but Niall seems to understand Zayn.

            “He has challenged for the title of Nalé,” Niall confirms, blue eyes hard and flinty. He does not look overly worried, but he does not cheer as the others do.

            “E uci.” Liam draws his sword as he speaks, the ring of steel punctuating his sentence.

            The man draws his own sword, the curved edge of it a mirror for Liam’s. They are the traditional style of Nakizi blade, thin and long with an understated curve. Zayn barely catches the gleam of them before they flash into movement. The first clash of steel elicits a high cry from the spectators, loud and wild, and Zayn’s stomach cramps. He cannot follow the fight, as Liam and the other man move too fast. It is nothing like the fights from the wedding, which Zayn realizes truly were for show rather than in earnest. If those fights had seemed like a dance, these fights pretend at nothing. Dust kicks up with the fast movement of their feet, and each time the swords meet in high arches, metal rings against metal.

            Zayn does not see the first misstep, but he hears the crowd’s joyous reaction as an arc of red blood flies overhead. It splatters to the road, dark against the dirt. Zayn searches desperately to see which blade it drips from, and he catches his breath when he sees the edge of Liam’s sword painted. He cannot see the wound on the other man, but it does not slow him down much. He spins, quick and furious, and Liam catches the blow close to his ribs.

            Too close, Zayn realizes, when the man shoves hard, knocking Liam off balance. His sword flashes high in the sun, and it comes down at Liam’s chest. Liam moves back, but the blade catches. Zayn swears he can hear the sound of flesh parting as a sharp line of red blooms across Liam’s chest, over his heart and onto the left of his chest.

            “Liam!” Zayn’s voice is lost in the roar of the crowd, and he does not realize he has stepped forward until Niall’s grip at his wrist stops him. “Niall –”

            “You cannot,” Niall shouts at him. “A challenge cannot be stopped once it is started. Liam accepted!”

            Zayn wants to beg and rage and fight Niall off of him, but he cannot look away. The fight continues. Blood drips onto the dirt underneath them, their feet turning the ground into a dark mess, and blood spreads down both of their bodies.

            “The cut is shallow,” Niall points out, again at Zayn’s ear.

            Zayn watches, uncertain, but he sees what Niall sees. Liam’s movements have not slowed, unhindered, but the other man has. Wherever Liam cut him, it has done damage after all.

            Zayn barely thinks it before the wet sound of sword into flesh sounds once more, and this time, the fight stops. The image resolves itself, and Zayn feels bile in the back of his throat when he sees Liam’s sword embedded in the gut of the other man, stopping him cold.

            With one movement, flesh sucking against the steel, Liam yanks his sword out and swipes. The man’s abdomen opens and innards spill out in a wash of blood. The man falls to his knees, sword falling as his hands scramble. He pushes at his own guts as though trying to push them back inside. Blood bubbles over his lips, and his wide eyes see nothing. The crowd erupts.

            Liam walks around him, calm, and when he stands behind the man, the crowd hushes. The man’s heaving breath, wet and shallow, echoes over the path. Liam grabs the top of his hair, yanking hard and baring the man’s throat. Liam’s sword slides over skin, and the man’s throat opens. Blood spills out, and the man falls lifeless to the dirt.

            The Nakizi scream, and chants of Liam’s name erupt from every mouth. Feet stamp and Liam raises his sword. The cut on his chest spills more blood, and Zayn, who stares at Liam’s face, sees his flinch.

            He is moving, pushing through the Nakizi to get to Liam. He must get to Liam.

            “Zayn,” Niall clings to his wrist once more. “Zayn, stop! He won.”

            “He is injured! Niall –”

            “It is nothing, a cut,” Niall yanks Zayn to a stop and pulls him close to hiss into his ear. “You are drawing attention, and it will embarrass him.”

            When Zayn looks, he sees that many Nakizi stare at them, eyes dark and critical. He does not care.

            “He is my husband!” Zayn shouts, throwing Niall’s hand from him. He pushes forward before Niall can react, shoving until he is before Liam.

            Liam looks to him, frown heavy on his face. It makes Zayn pause, aware of the eyes upon them and the blood underneath them. Liam bleeds though, sluggish but still fresh. Zayn reaches for him, wishing to put pressure on the cut. Liam knocks his hand away.

            “Jak,” he snaps, quiet, eyes darting around the lingering Nakizi, his people. Quiet has fallen over the group once more.

            “Liam,” Zayn tries, fingers outstretched.

            “Kezh,” Liam shakes his head.

            Zayn snaps. “Nk!”

            Complete silence falls, but Zayn does not look away from Liam. He will not be turned away any longer. He will not be dismissed or ignored or shunned.

            “Ta az nen zishun!” His voice whips through the air, strong and sure. “Nem! E iz tar. Ta az nem!”

            The Nakizi murmur, but Zayn looks only at Liam. He wills him to remember the words that Liam had said only days before. He wills him to understand that those words go both ways.

            Liam’s brown eyes are wide, his mouth parted. His sword still drips and gleams in his hand, and though his stance is strong, Zayn is not afraid. Liam is his husband, and his place is by Liam’s side.

            “Ta az nen zishun,” he repeats, stepping closer. This time when he reaches both hands forward, Liam does not stop him. Zayn presses against the cut, placing both hands over it to stop the bleeding. Liam’s heart pounds, strong, underneath his palms. “Ta az nem.”

            He needs Liam to understand; he needs them all to. Liam is his, and he will not let that be taken from him.

            When Liam moves, he places one large hand over Zayn’s, pressing harder to his chest. “Tar,” he repeats, quiet, just for them.

            Zayn breathes out, relieved.

            Liam raises his sword once more, Zayn before him, and this time when he shouts, his voice echoes. “Nen zishun!”

            “Tar zishun,” Zayn repeats, loud enough for all to hear.

            This time when the Nakizi yell around him, Zayn joins them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nakizi:  
> Anshiayn - beautiful  
> Ta saishal - you careful  
> Dec cen ta vulkezi a Nakin - go with your guard to the Nakin  
> E nkd dec - I not go  
> E gav saishal. Anshiayn ta dec - I will be careful. Beautiful, you go.  
> Unte nubemiem - until we meet again  
> Tar zishun - your husband  
> Kezh - enough  
> Hi ez pukuin - he is city-scum  
> Sik hir - ask him  
> Sik hir cun Princess Aliss - ask him about Princess Aliss  
> Ta az un suti - you are a fool  
> At ta az pulte - and you are jealous  
> Gunsuim - many thanks  
> Sashuin - welcome  
> Ta az nem - you are mine  
> E iz tar - I am yours  
> Liam ez ynei - Liam is right  
> Saishi pez hic - care for him  
> Da tec - What's this?  
> E hiz tec - I did this.  
> Nk, nkd tec - no, not this  
> Ta gav haz tec - you will do this  
> Nen vulkezi - my guard  
> Tar zishun ez neez - your husband is a whore  
> E gazeki ta per Nale - I challenge you for Nale  
> E uci - I accept  
> Ta az nen zishun - you are my husband  
> E iz tar. Ta az nem - I am yours. You are mine.
> 
> *The Nakizi sword is based on shotel swords, if anyone was interested.
> 
> DUBCON WARNING:  
> Liam takes Zayn to their private tent where he initiates rough sex in a semi-public place without discussing it first. Zayn is uncomfortable with these things but not unwilling to have sex. When Liam seems like he might penetrate Zayn roughly and without prep, Zayn thinks no but does not say it. Zayn is thinking no ONLY about the penetration, and when Liam makes no move to penetrate Zayn, they continue to have sex, with Zayn's nonverbal consent. It is hesitant consent, and Zayn is not in an ideal mindset to be consenting. Zayn gets pleasure from their sex and then feels uncomfortable afterwards because he did not expect to get pleasure. All of these factors leave Zayn very uncomfortable with the encounter. Please do not read if any of this will greatly upset you. Again, the scene can be skipped completely.  
> (Note updated 8/13/18 due to reader confusion/commentary/discourse about it. Please feel free to comment if you have thoughts/concerns/questions).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a much larger gap between updates than I ever wanted to have, and I am incredibly sorry for that. A couple of things influenced it, some personal changes in my life and then some issues with the chapter itself. Because I don't want to wait so long again, I think I have come up with a solution. I'm going to end this particular fic earlier and then make it into a series. The entire story will be finished eventually (probably over the summer when I have more time) but I've found a spot where I think I can wrap up the story with very few cliffhangers. That means this current story will only have a few more chapters, which hopefully I can do by the time my spring break is over (so within the month). I would love feedback on this decision before I do it so anybody leaving comments (all of whom I love a lot) feel free to let me know. Thanks!
> 
> Notes on this chapter:  
> -I've changed the way I write the Nakizi language because it was too time-consuming to make up the entire language so:  
> \---short sentences or ones that I feel are especially important are still in Nakizi with translations at the bottom  
> \---longer statements and ones that are less important are now written in italics  
> \---tl;dr: the italics now represent when they're speaking in Nakizi
> 
> -language warning (it's super slight)  
> -typical violence warning  
> -mention of past scene of dub-con (in previous chapter; see end for more detail)*

To say that Zayn’s one triumphant moment changes the course of his life would be inaccurate, but some things do change. He hears utterances of insults less and less, and more Nakizi regard him with, if not friendliness, then a general acceptance. Those who dislike him, however, carry their anger loudly in the stiffness of their shoulders, the way they turn from him, the distaste on their faces.

Zayn cannot blame them, but their hostility sets him on edge.

He cannot erase the image of the man’s discarded body, left in the dirt of the road to rot as a fallen challenger. New words haunt his dreams _E gakezi ta per Nalé._ Whispered from the mocking mouths of Nakizi men, other Nalé’s challenge, others from this Nakin. The challenge issues from the sneering mouths of Louis, of Niall, of Alerick, of Aliss, of a shadow man bearing the name Leiv. _I challenge you for Nalé._ They call for Liam’s blood, but their eyes remain on Zayn. They swarm him; they swarm Liam until Zayn wakes startled and choking on a scream. He would think the fear rooted in his own unstable position if every nightmare did not end in Liam’s bloody corpse. He sees it, night after night, Liam left on the side of the road, his throat slit, as greedy hands grasp at Zayn, and he stares into his husband’s empty eyes.

Little soothes the fear, so Zayn turns his focus to accepting the Nakin as he wants them to accept him, pushing it from his mind.

“E iz zishun aez Nalé Liam, kater aez King Yaser, ezek – ezek,” Zayn stumbled over the word, losing his train of thought as he grips the reins of his horse harder. It is a ridiculous word to forget. “Damn, rider, I forgot rider!”

Niall laughs at him, as does most of Zayn’s vulkezi, trailing behind and shamelessly listening to the language lessons. “It is one of your guards’ names, Zayn.”

Zayn casts guilty eyes to Ezra, the word sliding into his mind. “Ezrekiem aez Draza,” he finishes, the statement less powerful for the way he botched the first attempt.

Ezra grins at him, any shadows left by the trial with the knife long gone. He bears it on his hip still, a sign of loyalty for Zayn, and Zayn has seen the way Liam casts it approving looks. He does not know what his husband intended to show by cutting Ezra, perhaps what would happen to those who betrayed Zayn’s own loyalty, but it has done nothing but ensure Zayn’s vulkezi are loyal to him and him alone. Even now, as they laugh at his poor attempts to learn their language, they watch over him with dark, sharp eyes.

“Do not take it so to heart,” Niall pats Zayn’s knee as they ride beside each other, trailing the Nakin out of choice. Zayn grows weary of the fast pace the Nakin maintains to arrive at Xa, though he knows it is necessary. The distance between Xa and Albin doubles that which lies between Hal and Albin, and even at this quick pace it will take them an entire cycle of moon. Still, as they leave the grasslands behind and the grass grows shorter, he takes the opportunity to wander. So long as they stay in sight of the column of the Nakin, they can go where and how slow they please.

“You are picking it up far quicker than most,” Niall continues, joyful as always.

“I do not think so,” Zayn sulks. He itches under his language constraints, and he chastises himself for giving up on these lessons for so long. “The language is so harsh. I struggle.”

Niall’s blue eyes hide his thoughts when he answers, “Core can be a harsh language as well.”

It is a sharp reminder that Zayn does not know how Niall came to be part of the Nakin. He does not know what could bring a pale Northerner to Liam’s side, and he burns with curiosity. He knows better than to ask though. He has noticed, through days by this man’s side, that though Niall appears an open scroll, laid bare for any to read, he admits very little of importance. His easy demeanor is not a farce, but it does hide much underneath it.

“It can,” Zayn allows, finally, thinking of the pretty words of Court and Council and how venomous they often were.

Niall’s smile trembles, tight as a drawn bow string, but then he commands Zayn to speak. The moment fades behind them as they move onward.

 

* * *

        

By the time the Nakin rides after breaking for the midday meal, the grass has nearly disappeared from under them. Wide stretches of sand begin to sift under their feet, broken by islands of tan rock. Zayn’s eyes move constantly, entranced with the unfamiliar landscape and the way the Nakin moves over it.

When they had moved among the edges of the forest and the Grasslands, the Nakin had been restrained to a long, single column, the order set in the morning and unbroken until they chose a space large enough to rest at night. The sands do not restrain them so. Gradually, groups break off and ride, hard and with abandon or easy and languid. For the first time, Zayn can see the intricate weave of an entire population on the move.

Niall names the groups when Zayn asks, but for many he does not have to. When a group of young men and women, bows strapped to every back, breaks off with wild yells, Zayn recognizes a hunting party. He had known the meat at supper was fresh, and he understands how now. Other parties follow, enough to hunt for the entire Nakin, and Zayn marvels at their ability. He wonders what they will hunt in the sands, but he trusts their skill.

The wagons, which carry the very young and the very old, the sick and the healers, stay in a column, flanked by the Nakizi warriors. Zayn watches children jump down from wagons and race to others, light on their feet and fearless as they weave through horses and wagons alike. The warriors pay them no mind, jovial and loud as they ride at ease. The stretch between Albin and Xa bears little life, and the warriors can relax knowing any threat will be seen or heard long before it becomes a danger.

Scouting parties surge ahead and return, carrying news to those who cook, to the elders, to Liam, who rides near the center. It is a constant dance of motion, every Nakizi smooth as water, flowing between the groups.

When Niall prods Zayn gently to the side, slowing their pace, Zayn acquiesces. Their group falls behind and to the side, and Zayn does not mind his position for once. The air is still like he has never heard, and the day wraps around them all warm and empty. They stay far enough back that the wagons rest on the edge of their sights, within shouting distance if something were to happen but far enough away to give Zayn more privacy than he has had since he wed.

His eyes drift closed as he lets the gait of his horse soothe him into a restful calm. He hears Niall urge his vulkezi to relax, and he hears their horses move away. Kaz and Ani slip further behind them, watching but conversing between themselves. It makes Zayn smile to himself; he had noticed his quietest guard and his fiercest one spending more time together. When he had asked Niall, the man had grinned and admitted the two had not interacted much before Liam gave them to Zayn before he teased about Zayn’s matchmaking. Zayn had brushed it off. He is happy, and he wishes his guard to be as well.

Eli shouts, and Zayn slits his eyes open in time to watch his two other guards race off. His grin is large when he wonders who will win that contest, thinking of Eli’s recklessness on horseback but Ezra’s surety. He wonders what prize they have decided on.

When a shadow falls over them like a cloud blocking the sun, Zayn’s heart races but not in alarm. He looks up, expecting to see his dragon flying over them. Fraeyn has taken to doing so several times a day, almost as though she checks on him, and it gives Zayn delight. He squints against the brightness of the sun, seeking that red flash, but his eyes widen when he sees a glimmer of gold instead. One hand comes up to shade his gaze, uncertain, but when the shape drops lower, the color is unmistakable. A golden dragon rides over them, circling and watching, dropping steadily lower.

“Niall –” Zayn’s voice hikes up at the end, alarm turning it into a question.

Niall, riding in silence beside him, jerks his head up in surprise and then follows where Zayn points. His blue eyes widen, but not in surprise. Face draining of color, Niall hisses under his breath. He shoots Zayn a look filled with guilt, and then raises his chin to release a high-pitched whistle which shreds the air. The dragon pulls upward fast, disappearing into the clouds before Zayn’s guard, alerted, ride up once more.

Zayn gapes at Niall as the other man issues empty orders to Zayn’s vulkezi, clearly made up on the spot. He reassures them that the whistle had not been a call for help, frantic, and begs Zayn with his eyes to say the same.

“Zayn?” Ani asks. “Ta?”

Though she asks him if he needs anything, Zayn wants to ask her if she saw the dragon as well. He looks to Niall, pale and wide-eyed and resigned all at once, and he swallows the words. “Nk,” he assures. He does not want anything but answers.

When his vulkezi ride away once more, on whatever empty errands Niall commanded, he rounds on the paler man.

“Whose dragon is that?”

Niall stares at him, his gaze measuring. Whatever he sees, he deflates. Zayn wonders if Niall had hoped to mislead or lie to him; he is pleased that Niall no longer looks poised to do so.

“You saw her color then.”

“Her?” Zayn demands. “I know of no other female dragon, only Fraeyn.”

Niall shifts uneasily in his seat. “You know of no other dragons of this Nakin.”

Zayn sucks in a breath of air. “Others raise dragons? Who? Niall, the Cities do not –”

“No,” Niall cuts him off. “Not – that is not what I meant. Zayn, you cannot tell others you have seen her. She is not tame.”

Zayn’s mind spins, but still he thinks out loud, “No dragon is tame.”

A smile tips up Niall’s mouth. “True, but I think you know what I mean.”

And Zayn does, or at least he thinks so. No one else raises dragons, and no one could do so in secret. Even if another Nakin had gained the knowledge, whispers would have reached the Cities, and if any in the Cities had mastered the skill, they would have boasted of it. Zayn can think of only one answer then, to the unfamiliar golden dragon.

“She is riderless.” It feels a dangerous thing to say, a dragon unbound by loyalty to someone. As Zayn spends more time with Fraeyn, as he watches Liam and Ossium interact, he has come to understand why dragons bond. They are powerful creatures, built to rule the world underneath their wings. It is only their loyalty to people that binds them, and only when that loyalty is freely given. He does not know what drives a dragon to bond, but he can feel it. Fraeyn wishes to bond with him; she wishes to please him as he wishes to please her. Their actions mirror and complement each other, more with each passing day.

“She is,” Niall confirms.

“But how? When a rider dies, the dragons leave. No one sees them, and no one knows where they go. This is fact. Even this Nakin does not hold that knowledge.”

Niall hesitates, clearly wishing to tell someone, and Zayn wonders how long Niall has carried this secret by himself.

“I will tell no one,” he promises, understanding Niall’s hesitance. He thinks of his need to protect Fraeyn, already so strong and barely months old. He has no idea how old this dragon is, but he thinks she must be aged. She looked as large as Xohen, though not quite Ossium’s impressive size.

Niall’s sharp eyes evaluate him, and then he slumps in relief. “Her name is Auri.” A smile breaks over his face when he says it, and Zayn recognizes the expression. It is the way Liam smiles when he sees Ossium, or Zayn with Fraeyn, or even Louis with Xohen.

The name sounds familiar, but it takes Zayn a moment to place it. “Auri? Gold?”

Niall nods. “I named her. I would have chosen better than her color, if I knew her well.”

“You are not her rider.”

“I am not a rider at all,” Niall looks startled by the idea. “I was not in the Nakin at the age of bonding, and I have never been chosen to try in the years since.”

It feels wrong to Zayn, especially when evidence of Niall’s devotion to the beast is so apparent, but he bites his tongue. He will not press those questions, not yet. “So how did she come to be?”

“She was born with Ossium and Xohen, their sister, but when the choosing came, she chose none. She disappeared, as they always do. At least, that is what Harry says. He was there though, and I was not.”

“Harry? Does he know?” Zayn thinks of Harry, always so close to the dragons. He cares for them. Zayn thinks, though he has not asked, that it is Harry’s job.

“He does. When Auri first appeared, the way she did just now, I was startled. I had only been with the Nakin a short time, and I feared the idea of a truly free dragon. Harry recognized her, but even he cannot tell me why she came back. He told me to leave her be, and I have, surprised every time she returns.”

“And she continues to?” Zayn presses, curious. It is one thing for Ossium, Fraeyn, and Xohen to wander and return. They need their freedom, but they care for their riders here. Their shelter and food are here. Auri holds none of that.

Niall flushes, slight coloration along his cheeks. “She circled a few times at first, but then… I had joined a hunting party once, and I had killed more than we needed. I left her a deer.”

“You feed her,” Zayn stares at Niall, equal parts surprised and amused. He would not have believed Niall, who is so rational and calm, to foster a rogue dragon.

“Not always,” Niall assures. “But when we have the food, or I can hunt for her, I do. She will not come near others, though, so I leave it behind us. She does not always come either, and she never lands too close to me.”

“This is why you urged us to ride so far behind,” Zayn realizes. “This is why no one finds it strange when you ride with me at the rear.”

“Your beauty hides a sharp mind,” Niall teases, and Zayn swats at him.

“And you hide a reckless side, caring for a rogue dragon.”

Niall smiles, bright. “She is not dangerous, or at least I have never seen her do harm. She just flies over us, like she remembers where she came from.”

“Like she misses home.” Zayn can understand that. The ache for his own home has not faded, though it is buried now under new wishes and desires. “You have not told Liam,” he realizes, thoughts changing paths.

The jovial mood flees like shadows from the sun. “I have not,” Niall fidgets. “I do not keep it from him lightly, Zayn, but he has much to worry about. I fear he would see her as a loose end to tie. I fear…”

“You do not truly think he would kill her.” Zayn cannot imagine it, not Liam who loves the dragons so clearly.

Niall does not look certain though, his eyes dark with worry. “He carries a lot, and his worries number more than you realize. I would ask that you do not tell him.”

Zayn looks away. “Niall…” He does not want to keep secrets from his husband, but Niall’s worry gives him pause. Niall knows Liam well, better than Zayn. Perhaps his fear is just, and Zayn would not have a hand in the killing of a dragon.

“Please,” Niall urges, voice whisper quiet. “She does not interfere. Her presence does no harm.”

His desperation breaks Zayn, who nods slowly. “I will keep your secret,” he promises. When he sees the relief flood Niall’s face, he is quick to amend himself, wary of hurting Niall but unwilling to cross his husband. “So long as she remains harmless. I will not keep a threat from my husband.”

“She will not threaten us.” Niall sounds sure of himself, and the dragon that is his, even if he does not see it as a bond. “You will see, Zayn.”

Zayn shakes his head, amusement overtaking his worry. He wonders, briefly, at what his life has become, a tale from the ages of old where mysterious dragons appear in the sky. It is amazing, in every sense of the word.

“Well come on then,” he pushes a gentle heel into the side of Niall’s mount, tightening his own grip on his reins. At Niall’s questioning look, he elaborates. “If I hope to see Auri again, we had better find her some food.”

A smile breaks across Niall’s face, and without warning he urges his horse into a run. Zayn shouts in surprise, and then laughs, racing after him. They have hunting to do.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, Zayn keeps an eye out for Auri. When she flies near once more, Niall breaks off, falling behind. Zayn watches, his guard safely sent ahead, as Auri alights on the food Niall leaves. Niall stands and watches, close but not close enough to startle her away. When Auri is done, snout discolored from the blood, she lifts her head and stares at Niall. Her eyes flick to Zayn for only a moment, before she flies and disappears once more.

Niall is joyful when he rides back to Zayn’s side, and in the following days, Zayn learns to spot the dragon who flies over them, like a silent protector.

 

* * *

 

The breaking dawn wakes the Nakizi, and Zayn along with them. He marvels at it, one morning as he and Liam move around each other in their tent, companionable silence holding between them. In Hal, he had risen only when the sun was nearing its zenith and only under protestation, but here, in the Nakin and on the road, he finds himself rising with ease. When he had been alone in his tent, sleep had never come easy to him, and when it did, it was light enough that any sound awoke him. Rising with the Nakin was not hard then, but it is no harder now that his husband has taken to spending nights in their tent.

Liam’s presence by his side, day after day, at first unsettled him. Zayn was not used to sharing space so intimately with anyone. He had been granted much freedom as the Prince of Hal, more than any of his sisters who had chambermaids at their sides. If he had thought about it before, he would have found the idea unbearable. Having someone beside him, someone in his bed, someone watching him rise in the morning and fall asleep at night, sounds suffocating, and at first it was. He felt as though his every move was observed, judged under his husband’s older gaze, and it was; not the way he had imagined though.

Liam watches him the way one watches an entrancing sight, with curiosity and warmth, amusement and, on occasion, desire. Zayn had flushed when he had realized, but now the weight of his husband’s eyes settles him. It had not been a simple transition, nor an immediate one. Too much had occurred between them already to allow anything easy, but time soothed their rough edges.

They worked their way towards the intimacy Zayn had experienced briefly before, the intimacy he craved once more. He enjoys his husband’s presence during the day, but it is these quiet moments in the morning and at night in their tent that he craves.

A slight smile tugs at Zayn’s lips this morning when he watches Liam’s eyes dart away once Zayn catches him staring. Skittish is not a word he would have thought to apply to the Nalé, but apply it does whenever Zayn catches Liam’s eyes on him. He shrugs into a riding vest, fingers lacing the ties with familiarity, his eyes focused on his husband. Liam reaches up above his head to finger comb his hair. Tied up when among the Nakin, he lets it down from its braids and knots in their tent. Zayn itches to run his own fingers through it, and watching Liam struggle with braids this morning, he contemplates offering for the first time. It is not that Liam cannot do it, nor that Zayn does not appreciate watching the process, which causes Liam’s arms to flex in a distracting and pleasing manner, but he wishes to help. He wishes to do this for his husband.

“Liam,” the name is quiet though not hesitant anymore.

Brown eyes look up, arms held above his head as he tilts it in question.

Zayn bites the corner of his lip, nervous, but he steps forward. “Ki ne saix. Ki ne payti tar luzo.”

Liam’s eyes sharpen, and warmth tightens Zayn’s gut pleasurably. He has not spoken Nakizi to his husband since he began his lessons with Niall once more, and though he had thought his handling of the language much improved, he had no proof. He does now, in the sharp and wanting look of Liam’s eyes. He was understood.

 “Ta siva Nakizi,” his husband’s voice rumbles low in his chest.

 Zayn nods, hesitant. “ _Niall teaches me, as we ride. I wish to speak with you, in your tongue.”_

Pleasure flashes in the depths of Liam’s eyes, warming the brown and making Zayn’s breath catch in his throat. Desire crackles over his skin; it has been too long since his husband looked at him with this much intention.

Liam measures him, that sharp intensity fading. He moves back and seats himself on the wooden lid of a chest. His chin jerks Zayn forward, but his voice is welcoming when he commands, “Dazun. Dazun payta nem luzo.”

Zayn swallows against his dry throat, commanding any disappointment away. He had asked to braid Liam’s hair, and he will not regret not asking for more. When he moves around to Liam’s back, he trails soft fingers over Liam’s broad shoulders. Liam tilts his head, keeping him in sight for another moment, before he settles firmly facing forward. Zayn’s fingers hesitate for only a moment before gentling into the ends of Liam’s hair, untangling knots as he works his way upward.

Liam tenses under him and then shudders, and a sharp jab of want strikes Zayn’s gut. He ignores it as he pulls gently at his husband’s hair. He wishes for intimacy, not just coupling. It is hard to remember as Liam relaxes underneath his hands, but as time passes, Zayn eases into the familiar routine.

He used to braid his sisters’ hair, in Hal. Doniya would ask his help the most, with her long and carefully kept locks, but Wali he would have to fight for it until she chopped her long hair off two winters ago. Safaa’s hair was almost too fine to hold any intricate style. She enjoyed the time spent with him though, so he did it for her as well. He could not recall how it had begun, but he had enjoyed it. He misses his sisters with a sudden and sharp ache, that he pushes away only to focus on his husband.

Doing this for Liam, as he finishes untangling the knots of his wavy hair, feels both the same and different. It is soothing, but a sharp edge runs underneath the motions. It means more, done for his husband. Zayn realizes, as he parts sections at the sides to braid back, that he would enjoy doing this every morning for his husband. He hopes Liam might agree, but he does not ask yet.

Gathering most of Liam’s hair into a knot at the top of his head, Zayn ties it loosely for now. He moves around to the side of Liam, pressing against his broad thigh as he braids the sections he had left down. He enjoys this style the most on his husband, fierce but messy, most of the hair left in a loose knot with only a few braids back along the sides. When he moves to Liam’s other side, a hand settles at his hip, warm and heavy. Zayn shudders under the contact but does not stop what he is doing. His fingers move, light and agile, twisting the hair together. He pulls all the braids back and reties the knot so the braids will be held with it. When he is done, he moves to face Liam, eyeing the result to make sure he has copied the style correctly. He feels confident with the result.

When two hands settle on his hips, Zayn must look down, unable to help himself. Liam’s eyes are dark, his face flushed as he stares up at Zayn. _“You have braided before,”_ Liam speaks, voice rough over the questioning words.

 “ _My sisters,”_ Zayn has to clear his throat. “ _I would braid their hair. It is not the same as the Nakizi braid, but…”_ he trails off with a shrug. He thinks he has done a decent job of it.

Liam’s fingers flex on his hips, and his eyes do not waiver as he breathes, “Gunsuim.”

“Sashuin,” Zayn’s voice breaks embarrassingly in the middle of the word, and Liam’s eyes sharpen once more to that dark hunger. It makes the ignored want gathering in Zayn’s belly grow, and he leans forward without thought. His lips press to Liam’s before he realizes what he is doing. He tenses, uncertain, the barest kiss between them. It is not something they have done, not something he has seen the Nakizi do, and his heart races. He had not thought, but he had wanted.

Liam’s hands tighten and then pull. Zayn gasps, lips slotting firmly together as Liam bends Zayn down to him. Their torsos press together, Zayn bent halfway over his husband. It gives him the height advantage for the first time, and he presses down, hungry and wanting. The kiss deepens, Liam’s tongue tracing his bottom lip gently. It is a soft kiss but no less for it. It reaches deep into Zayn, tugging at his lungs and gut and heart. His fingers cradle Liam’s jaw, knee pressing between Liam’s parted thighs for balance. Liam’s palms slide to the small of his back, bare skin sliding underneath his leather riding vest. Zayn shudders, breaking the kiss to catch his breath.

 “Liam,” his voice is aching, but when he goes to press his lips to his husband’s once more, Liam turns his head.

 “Nk,” Liam’s voice sounds desperate, but he shakes his head. He pulls back further, using his hands to press space between them. Disappointment rushes through Zayn, and he moves to stumble back, embarrassed and rejected. He wishes to flee, tugging back further. Liam does not release him. “Zayn, nk. Nkd…” he trails off in a frustrated hush.

Zayn eyes the ground, uncertain and hating it. He had not meant to press for this, but he had. He had never expected Liam to reject him if he did though.

“Zayn.” Liam’s fingers prompt his chin up just enough to meet Liam’s gaze. His thumb slides over Zayn’s sharp cheekbone, the once familiar gesture soothing some of the fear. Desire is still clear on Liam’s face, and it confuses Zayn. “Anshiayn.”

He offers nothing else, but he does not shy away from Zayn. They rest like that, an endless moment of small touches. Zayn feels himself relax into it, letting the sting of rejection go. It troubles him, adding to concerns he has harbored since shortly after departing Albin, but he does not push it now. He lets himself enjoy this, Liam’s full attention, his undeniable affection.

When Liam rises, pushing Zayn gently back with soft and guiding hands, he goes without complaint. Liam removes his hand from Zayn’s face, dropping a light kiss to his forehead in the same movement. He steps around Zayn, hands sliding over his chest and eyes lingering for a moment longer than he normally allows before he leaves to lead the Nakin. He does not speak, though Zayn wishes he would.

Left in the tent on his own once more, he holds onto the morning shared between them. He forces the worry over Liam’s rejection away, unwilling to linger on the bad when the good is so present.

 

* * *

 

Fraeyn gleams underneath Zayn’s hands, red burnished almost gold underneath the glinting sun. Her scales are smooth as Zayn rubs sand over them, caught between her flesh and his. Thrumming echoes low between her chest and his, contentment on the edges of his smile.

He had been surprised to learn that dragons shed skin like the snakes Galeton used to keep, imported from the southern country of Kron. Galeton’s obsession with the slithering creatures, Zayn never understood, but he does remember being entranced by the skins left behind as the snakes grew. Fraeyn does not shed in long flakes like them but small ones, which itch at her. Left to her own devices she will scratch herself raw, or so Harry has informed him. For the past few days, Zayn has taken to trailing the Nakizi man and rubbing sand over Fraeyn’s scales, rubbing away the flakes. It is a welcome break from the endless riding as they slowly edge their way to Xa.

The rolling motion of the grains of sand against his palm is soothing today, rubbing them both smooth. Fraeyn preens under the attention, seeking him out today before he could find her. The Nakizi watch their interactions with blatant curiosity every day, and Zayn lets them, for once unselfconscious. For all the uncertainty his marriage has brought him, Fraeyn has always been a certain thing. She is his dragon and he, her rider.

“She trusts you,” Harry’s deep voice comes from over Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn ducks his chin to hide the pleased flush flooding his cheeks. He likes Harry, almost as much as he has come to like Niall, but he finds himself embarrassed by his meagre interactions with Fraeyn in the face of Harry’s connection with all the dragons. Zayn is not certain what precisely Harry does, but from Niall has said and what Zayn has witnessed, he thinks the curly-haired Nakizi raises them until they choose riders. He cannot imagine such a wondrous life, but his envy is dulled with Fraeyn under his palms.

 “ _I trust her_ ,” he answers after another moment, when Harry does not speak. The switch to Nakizi is intentional. He appreciates Harry’s willingness to speak Core, though he still does not understand why Harry speaks it, but he wishes to practice. Harry is one of the few he feels confident enough to try with.

Fraeyn shifts under his hands, her head swinging around to knock at him like a pet begging for attention. Zayn laughs and obligingly moves his fingers to her face.

"Eknan,” he teases. “Spoiled.”

Fraeyn nips at him, playful, and Zayn responds with a flick of his fingers to her nose, tilting his wrist to check that she has not snagged his leather band out of habit.

 “ _It does not fray_.”

Zayn’s wrist drops behind him, childish as he blinks dumbly at Harry. The Nakizi man smiles at him, light and teasing. His eyes flick to Zayn’s wrist, hidden, but it is clear he has seen how the leather shines. “ _I would not allow it to_ ,” Zayn swallows past sudden dryness in his throat to speak, but the words feel necessary.

 Harry tilts his head, green eyes darkening in confusion. “ _That is not a doubt many hold.”_

_"Does Liam?”_

Concern becomes apparent on Harry’s face, and Zayn looks away. He had not meant to give voice to his ridiculous fears, but they linger. Since he kissed Liam in their tent, his husband has initiated no further contact. They touch, but not as husband and husband. His worry over the rejection has only grown since, plaguing him and causing horrible thoughts.

“ _Do you?”_ Harry returns. When Zayn does not answer, he presses. “ _Zayn do you worry that Liam will let his band fray?”_

Zayn shrugs, listless and insolent. He feels a young adolescent once more, uncertain in his affections. As his feelings for Liam grow – and they do, with every day, crowding his throat and his mind and his body until he feels endless as the sky but trapped inside his too tight skin – his worry does too.

 “ _Zayn, Liam cares for you.”_

Earnestness wears easily on Harry’s face, and Zayn knows he speaks the truth. His husband’s care for him, though not shown in the ways Zayn had grown up knowing, is obvious enough. Liam may not court, as the nobles of Hal would, but he cares for Zayn. His affection appears more frequently with every day that they spend together, but Zayn remembers too clearly the instability of before. The moment after the Nalé challenge, when Zayn had proclaimed Liam his and himself Liam’s, has given them more balance than they have yet known, but Zayn does not trust it to last. He thinks of the morning before entering Albin and how quickly it had changed by that afternoon.

 “ _But for how long?_ ” The question slips out, and Zayn bites his lip, too late to catch it. The fear has been eating at him, his inability to hold his husband’s attention, but he never intended to voice it. The thought to ask Niall has entered his mind dozens of times, but he dares not ask a man so apparently close to his husband. Harry’s connection with Liam feels less.

 “Zayn –”

Desperation forces Zayn’s words, and he slips into Core, unable to form words in Nakizi that capture what he feels. “I know that I am a trophy for him, something new and interesting, something needed in an uncertain time. I am no fool.”

 “Zayn –” Harry protests.

“I know, too, that he cares for me,” Zayn cuts him off, “but I do not know how to hold his attention and affection. Not when others still do too.”

“What others?” Something flashes in Harry’s eyes.

Zayn presses back into Fraeyn, who snuffles at his shoulder, perhaps sensing his frustration and turmoil. He wishes suddenly that he had not begun this conversation; he has no hope of it ending in a manner pleasing to him, and it is ruining his time with Fraeyn. He shakes his head. “It does not matter. I understand it is the way in arranged marriages, sometimes, but –” But he had hoped it would not be the case with his, he does not get the chance to say because Harry interrupts.

“Who else does Liam see?” Anger whips through his voice, and Zayn is surprised by it but not by the way Fraeyn straightens underneath it. It answers the unspoken question of how such a pretty man, such a kind man, could raise dragons. Harry carries a quiet authority. “It is not the way,” Harry continues, furious. “It is not our way. The Nakizi do not abide by disloyalty. If Liam beds someone else while wearing his band –”

Confusion sparks in Zayn’s chest.  He does not understand Harry’s ignorance nor his anger when the person Liam beds is so apparent. “But Louis…” He trails off when the anger leaves Harry all at once, understanding sliding over his face.

“Louis is vulkeyun,” Harry answers, shaking his head. “That is not – it is different.”

 “They have a bond.” It is undeniable; Zayn could see it from the beginning.

“A bond of blood, of brotherhood.”

 “You call him jealous,” Zayn argues. “You and Liam, both.”

Guilt this time flows across Harry’s face. “Of Liam’s loyalty, yes, but not his – I had not realized you did not understand the place of vulkeyun. I would have told you sooner if I had known what you thought. Zayn, Niall and I both are vulkeyun to Liam.”

Zayn rests a hand on Fraeyn, uncertain. “You are not his guard.” He does not call you vulkeyun, like he does Louis, Zayn does not say, but the thought persists.

Harry shakes his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Vulkeyun are different than guards. I cannot… there is no Core for this. We are brothers to Liam, brothers but never more.”

“Louis –”

“I will not explain Louis to you,” Harry cuts Zayn off, firm. “If you wish to know, if you wish to understand him, you will have to ask him.” The unlikelihood of that occurrence must show on Zayn’s face, because Harry laughs, any lingering tension falling from his broad shoulders. “He is not the devil he acts.”

Zayn thinks of Harry calling Louis off, the night Zayn had wandered to visit Fraeyn. He thinks of them both being vulkeyun to Liam, and he wonders at their own connection. Niall and Louis are friends, it is clear enough when they do not argue over Zayn, but Harry and Louis, he does not understand their relationship. He does not ask though.

When the silence has calmed between them, Harry steps closer, laying his own hand along Fraeyn’s flank. The dragon eyes him but does not shake it off. She watches until Harry stops moving closer to Zayn, and Harry snorts at her but looks pleased. Zayn, too, is pleased by Fraeyn’s reactions to him, but he hides it.

When Harry speaks once more, it is not about Fraeyn as Zayn might have guessed. “You should not doubt Liam’s loyalty to you. I know no man more loyal.”

Zayn shakes his head, studying his own cuff. It is not Liam’s loyalty that he doubts, not truly. Liam’s cuff, whenever Zayn can sneak attention to it, gleams just as much as Zayn’s, but loyalty and affection are not always the same. He doubts his ability to keep Liam’s affection, his attention, his care. He dares not even call it love, not yet, even when his own regard grows. He thinks inevitably, Liam will seek out other lovers, keeping his band for the alliance it intended but no more. He thinks perhaps Liam already has.

 “Why do you doubt him?” Harry presses.

 “He does not…” Zayn trails off, blushing furiously. He does not want to voice this, but he wants answers. He knows no one else to ask. “We have not…”

Knowledge sparks in Harry’s eyes. “He does not bed you.”

“Not since –” Zayn cuts himself off, unwilling to mention the last time. “No. He does not try.”

 “Not since he took you when you returned from Albin,” Harry finishes.

Zayn flinches, and Harry looks sympathetic. His cheeks burn, though he is not surprised. He knows how information travels in the Nakin. Though he has thought over that moment, though he has given pleasure to himself over it, he still wishes it had not been witnessed as it was. He still wishes it had occurred differently.

“No,” Harry says quietly, studying Zayn. His green eyes dart to Zayn’s fingertips, though healed completely by now, as though he knows of the injury once there. “I do not imagine he would try again.”

Confusion furrows Zayn’s brow at Harry’s heavy words. “What –”

Harry shakes his head once more, a common method he has for steering conversations where he would. “If you desire him,” Harry pauses uncertain, as though Zayn’s desire is in doubt, “perhaps you should try.”

Heat sinks low in Zayn’s stomach, and his fingers twitch against Fraeyn’s scales. The sand in his palm is long gone, but he does not scoop up more. He does desire Liam, despite Harry’s uncertain tone which he does not understand. Of course he desires his husband, but he cannot initiate such a thing between them. “He is Nalé,” Zayn mutters, low, his eyes downcast. “It is not my place.”

Harry scoffs. “Is he not your husband? Are you not his?”

“That is not the same.”

“It is not so different, here, as you seem to think.”

Zayn’s heart picks up as he wonders. It is not as he was raised, and he had not thought this would be different among the Nakizi. “I would not –”

“Harry,” a familiar voice interrupts them.

Zayn and Harry both turn to squint at the approaching group of men, weariness gripping Zayn at the familiarity of that voice, but Harry’s face splits into a grin.

 “Louis,” he greets, warmly.

Louis and a group of Nakizi on horseback stop beside them. Zayn backs further into Fraeyn’s comforting shape. She ducks her head to rest heavy on his shoulder. He does not recognize anyone beyond Louis, but he is not surprised. Louis has accepted his friend’s death at Liam’s hands, but he cannot imagine they all would. It worries him.

 “ _The Nakin moves, and the dragons must hunt. Liam requests your presence,”_ Louis announces, and for once his blue eyes do not look chilly as they stare down at Harry. Something almost like a smile hovers on the edges of his mouth. In the next moment, his gaze flicks to Zayn, who startles. “ _Niall asks for you.”_

Zayn tenses, uncertain at being addressed directly by Louis, but the coldness typically in his eyes does not return. Instead, his brow knots when Zayn does not answer.

 “Harry,” Louis turns his focus, flicking between them. “ _Tell him –”_

_“I will go to Niall,”_ Zayn answers, keeping his voice low and hoping the interruption will not invoke Louis’s rage.

Surprise flashes over Louis’s face but nothing more. He evaluates Zayn, tilting his head as Harry does. “ _He rides at the front,”_ Louis ventures after a moment, watching Zayn carefully to gauge his comprehension. He speaks slowly, so Zayn nods to convey his understanding. He is proud to prove to Louis that he understands their language. Louis’s eyes turn to Fraeyn’s head on Zayn’s shoulder, and for a moment, his eyes appear to gentle. “ _You may say goodbye to her first. There is no great hurry.”_

_“Best say goodbye to her first,”_ an unfamiliar voice whispers from behind Louis, just loud enough to carry. “ _We know how bitches are when left behind.”_

Laughter sparks throughout the group, mocking and jeering. Anger flushes through Zayn, sudden and gripping. He barely notices that neither Harry nor Louis laugh. Red colors the edges of his vision, and when he speaks, it is a low growl, “ _What?_ ”

Silence chokes the group, laughter cutting off as though felled by a sword. Wide eyes stare at Zayn, but he pays them no mind.

“ _What did you say?”_ Zayn demands, furious.

A man nudges his horse forward. He is a stranger to Zayn, an average Nakizi man. Zayn thinks he may be a hunter, judging by the bow upon his back. It does not matter who he is though. He insulted Fraeyn. When he tips his head down to Zayn, it is more mockery than anything. “ _Your dragon is a girl, yes? Then it is fitting when I call her a bitch.”_

_“Mind your tongue,”_ Zayn hisses. “ _She is a dragon, and she is mine.”_

Any humor fades from the man’s demeanor. His nose wrinkles when he laughs meanly down at Zayn. “ _Is she? I have not seen you ride her.”_

“ _You know that is not the way,”_ Harry interrupts, sounding just as angry as Zayn.

_“I know it is not the way for city-scum to claim our dragons,”_ the man retorts, lips curling.

“ _She chose me,”_ Zayn snaps.

_Then she is a dumb bitch,”_ the man spits at the ground by Zayn’s feet, and when Zayn recoils, he pushes his horse forward. Zayn has to arch his neck to meet his gaze, trapped between the width of the horse’s chest and Fraeyn behind him. Fraeyn snorts uneasily, smoke releasing in warning. She backs up when Zayn presses at her chest. Louis snaps at the man, but he does not listen. “ _Bitches need to be ridden,”_ he jeers, and several of the men behind him holler. Harry’s command to stop gets lost underneath their noise. Zayn can almost feel it when the scales tip, the group overwhelming Louis and Harry, led by this man’s ignorance. “ _Perhaps I should ride her.”_

Fury rocks Zayn, and when he answers, he yells. “ _She is mine!”_

_"She could be mine,”_ the man presses, relentless. Several of the others echo him, cheering, calling for him to ride her, to mount her, to claim her. The man reaches a meaty hand down, reaching for Zayn or Fraeyn he cannot tell. The man’s words are lost under the shouts of the men behind him, Louis and Harry suddenly too far away. The men following this one have crowded all others away, pressing towards Zayn until he has backed himself away. Under the current of all the voices, Zayn loses his understanding of the language. All he can hear are coarse shouts in a rough tongue; all he can see is a hand reaching for him or his dragon.

When he presses Fraeyn back, he turns, one hand reaching up. Thoughts do not exist in his mind, just fractured knowledge. He must escape. He must protect Fraeyn. He must get them away. His hand finds the horn sprouting from Fraeyn’s skull nearest him, grips it and pulls. He swings himself up like he has grown used to mounting his horse. When his legs latch to the sides of Fraeyn’s neck, he feels at home. Fraeyn rears up, unbowed by the weight of him. She releases a roar, echoing into the air, and when she dips her head, flame falls from her mouth. She burns an arch around them. Fire licks at the sand, catching on nothing but startling the horses and men back. Shouts and shrill calls echo from them both, and Zayn sees wide, surprised eyes. He sees fear.

Power rushes through him, his hands falling to rest behind the dip of Fraeyn’s skull. He holds on with his thighs, flexing to test his grip as he would on a horse. Fraeyn moves under him, responsive. Joy, fierce and overwhelming, floods his body, and he knows, as he has known nothing else in his life, that this is where he belongs.

When Fraeyn tips her head back to roar once more, Zayn tips his chin back, baring his throat and releasing a wild call to echo hers. They rend the air until nothing but silence is left in their wake, and when Zayn looks to the man, he sees nothing, a man below his noticing.

“Fraeyn ez nem, nen draza,” he has never held command so easily in his voice. His control is absolute, and he has no doubt that he means what he says next. “ _If you try to take her, we will tear you to pieces and burn them until not even the ashes of you will fall to mar Kiza’s earth.”_

He does not watch the man’s reaction, does not care if he believes Zayn or not. With one command, “Fraeyn, dec!” they lift into the sky. His eyes focus only upward as wings snap out and shove at the air, moving them. Clouds rush to meet them, the journey begun and ended in several blinks of his eyes. When the dizzying motion ends, they are far above the ground, wind whipping at Zayn’s grown out hair, clouds touching coolly over his skin. He shivers, exhilaration and the chill combining to race down his spine. His fingers flex against Fraeyn’s scales, the motion of her flapping wings even as she moves them forward. His body moves on instinct, hunching over her neck, rolling with the motion. 

 He looks over her neck, at the ground below. It weaves in and out of sight, clouds blocking the view as Fraeyn flies with abandon. He does not question where she goes, gives her control, and lets her lead.

He feels free.

His heart pounds, and his palms itch with sweat. Fear exists, but it is buried underneath the rightness of this moment. Fraeyn hums underneath him, content, and he knows that she flies carefully with him on her back. Their connection, odd though it is, feels open and present as it has not before. He feels like one.

Slowly, he clenches his knees tighter, sliding his hands up and then off Fraeyn’s scales. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes as the air rushes over him. Extending his arms out to either side, he finds his balance. He feels as though he flies. A wild shout of joy leaves his throat, and Fraeyn echoes it. The moment is endless, his entire life all at once.

* * *

           

They fly for what feels like days and no time at all. Zayn does not order Fraeyn down or to stop. He does not wish to go back. Now that time has passed, now that he is free of the fear which drove him skyward, a new fear takes its place. He is not meant to ride Fraeyn yet.

Though he does not understand why, he understands the importance of that. The ceremony that Niall and Harry have both mentioned, respect in their eyes. It is important, a part of the Nakizi culture that he has subverted once before by the nature of his choosing. Now he has disregarded it completely.

 He shudders, chills on his bare arms and not solely from the cold, which grows with every passing moment. The sun threatens to set, and he knows they must land. He should let Fraeyn take him back to the Nakin; she needs to hunt. He has selfishly stolen her evening, and he pets the sensitive scales behind her horns in apology. Fraeyn snorts, like she forgives him. He does not quite forgive himself though, not for being a coward.

But it is not the men that he left behind that he fears anymore; it is Liam. He fears his husband’s reaction when he discovers what Zayn has done, the rule Zayn has broken. He fears the rejection of the Nakizi once more. He fears it because he will deserve it, this once.

He opens his mouth, resolved to give the command, but hesitating over Fraeyn’s name. He fears for her too, perhaps, tension running through him. It is because of his own tension that he does not notice hers, at first. When he takes note of it, Fraeyn’s neck stiffening underneath him, dislodging his perch just the slightest amount, he does not have time to react. A shape sweeps toward them, blinding in its brightness, and Zayn throws up an arm to shade his eyes. Fraeyn releases a surprised noise, much like a cat’s hiss, and ducks out of reflex. For one endless moment, Zayn knows exactly what will happen, and still he cannot stop it.

He falls.

His knees slip, legs sliding, and his hands are not quick enough to grasps the horns on Fraeyn’s head. Spines do not exist along her back as they do along Xohen’s, and Zayn has nothing to find purchase with. One moment he has Fraeyn underneath him, and the next he has only air. The sole indication that he falls is the renewed vigor with which the wind pulls at him, ripping at his clothes and hair until he is blinded. He reaches for something, despite knowing nothing will be there, breathless and unable to make a single noise. He gasps and chokes on nothing, fear sudden and complete inside of him.

He has no guess of how far he has fallen, for how long, before all at once he stops. The pain registers before anything else, his hands scrabbling for his gut, which has slammed over something. The air has been knocked from him, and he makes awful gasping noises. He holds on though, instinctive. He wishes to survive. When the air begins to drag at him in reverse, he knows he rises. His eyes are screwed shut, but he can recognize the feel of scales underneath him. Fraeyn, he thinks. Fraeyn must have caught him.

When his breath finally comes easy, he opens his eyes in relief. Red scales do not crowd his vision though; gold do.

He scrambles, fighting for a firmer seat. The dragon underneath him wobbles, and Zayn clasps a spine, gaping at further confirmation that it is not his dragon who has saved him. When at last he finds his seat, his hold so much tighter than it had been on Fraeyn’s back, he stares at the golden beast beneath him.

Auri, he thinks, shocked and delirious. Auri flies underneath him, shifting like she is uncomfortable. The flash of light that had startled Fraeyn makes more sense, and he resolves it in his mind’s eye. Auri had flown towards them, curious perhaps. Fraeyn had dropped him from surprise, and Auri – Auri had caught him.

He rubs at his tender stomach, thinking caught is perhaps too kind a word, but regardless she had flown underneath him to stop his fall. She had saved him. He does not understand, but as he sits on her back, catching his breath, he is grateful.

Auri flies, less steady than Fraeyn had, and Zayn thinks that she would prefer him not on her back at all. It only confuses him further. He did not think dragons would accept more than one rider. He knows that no one touches the dragon outside of their riders and Harry. It makes no sense that Auri would bear his touch, not when she knows him only from sight and only at Niall’s side.

"Gunsuim, Auri,” he murmurs after a moment, uncertain if she will hear or understand, but thankful regardless.

When a shape flies towards them once more, Zayn tenses, spotting it before it resolves this time. When he sees red, he relaxes. Fraeyn flies alongside them, staring at Zayn with what he swears are guilty eyes. She calls, and Zayn startles when he hears Auri respond. They communicate in clicks that he has not heard before. It is an unfamiliar sound that he can compare to nothing else, but it soothes him. Fraeyn will look after him, he knows, and any half-formed fears about being trapped on Auri’s back until she decides to land are forgotten.

"Fraeyn,” he calls. Fraeyn tilts her wings, letting the air catch them enough to drag her back towards Zayn. She flies beside him, head level with his shoulder. He wants to marvel at the skill, to wonder at the familiarity of Auri and Fraeyn flying beside one another, but more pressing concerns beckon him. “Fraeyn, kira.” _Land,_ he tells her, hoping she will understand. They must land. Darkness creeps over Kiza, and night threatens to fall.

Fraeyn releases a stream of smoke, warm as it wraps over Zayn before leaving. When she edges forward once more, she clicks at Auri. The descent is sudden, and Zayn scrambles ungracefully for a better hold. He clings to Auri’s spines, all his earlier confidence forgotten. He can still remember the rush of air as it had swallowed him. He would feel better on Fraeyn’s back, but he does not dare to try to arrange that in the air.

He hunches over Auri, turning his face into her scales to hide from the chill of the wind whipping at him. She dives quicker than Fraeyn rose, and the ground rushes up to them quickly. He makes out the dark shape of the Nakin, blinks, and it resolves into bodies. The tents are set up, fires lit, he notices, and then he realizes that they are in the same spot they were for the midday meal. The Nakin did not move.

Shouts rise as Auri swoops over, Fraeyn at her side. Zayn sees shock on several faces, moving too fast to tell more. They move over the entire camp and shoot past, Zayn wary but willing to land wherever the dragons decide. He understands a moment later when they pass a smaller group, all seated on horseback. The shape of Liam is immediately recognizable to Zayn, and he feels himself relax. They stare up as Auri flies over.

When Auri elects to land, she picks a clearing away from the group, distant enough that anyone will have to travel towards them. Dust rises when both dragons land, light on their feet for such large beasts. It barely has time to settle before the group is upon them.

Zayn stares, half-forgotten fears remembered once under the eyes of Liam and his guard. Harry, Louis, and Niall all gape at him, and Zayn’s guard stands even further back, as though afraid to come closer. He cannot make himself study Liam’s face, too wary of what he might find there. Auri is tense underneath him.

“Niall,” Zayn calls and then pauses to clear his throat. His voice is rough, from the wind or from falling, he does not know. “Niall, ask Auri to lower her head.”

Niall startles noticeably from the back of his horse. “Me?”

Zayn does not wish to air his friend’s secrets, but he can see no way around it. “Niall.”

His voice must convey enough because Niall listens. He edges forward, uncertain and appearing chastised. He shoots a guilty look toward Liam before speaking, “ _Auri, lower.”_

For an endless moment, Zayn does not think it will work. He has heard Liam issue the same command to Ossium, but Auri is wild, riderless. She favors Niall though, so Zayn has hope. She hesitates, and then all at once lowers her neck. Zayn slips a leg over, letting himself slide from her.

Without thought, he presses a hand to her scales before she can lift her head once more. “Gunsuim, Auri.” She meets his eyes for a moment, bright green he notices, before leaving. The force of her departure makes Zayn stumble, air whipping the dust up once more. He throws an arm up to shield his face, and when he lowers it, Fraeyn has taken Auri’s place.

“Fraeyn,” relief colors his voice. She bows her head, snout to his chest in something like apology. Her intelligent eyes carry guilt. “ _I am well,”_ he reassures her.

“Zayn.”

He turns, too abruptly, but his husband’s voice startles him. And Liam is there, just in front of him. Zayn nearly steps back, afraid, but Liam steps forward all at once. His hands find Zayn’s face, cradling it as he has done a handful of times before. His thumb sweeps over the arch of Zayn’s cheek. Where Zayn expects anger or disappointment or even the nothing mask his husband sometimes wears, he sees only relief in the depths of Liam’s eyes.

“Zayn,” he repeats, forehead pressing to Zayn’s, their breath mingling between them. Zayn grips his wrists, instinct. “Anshiayn.”

“Liam,” Zayn answers, reassurance heavy in his voice because the relief in Liam’s is so apparent. His fingers stroke absentmindedly at the bones of Liam’s wrists. “ _I am well,”_ he repeats; he thinks Liam needs to hear it.

When Liam pulls back, Zayn thinks he may have been wrong. He tenses, waiting for yelling, waiting to hear about what he has done, the rules he has broken, but the relief in Liam’s eyes has turned only to awe. Zayn does not understand.

“Zayn,” Liam breathes and his voice is awestruck as well. “ _You rode the dragons.”_

_“I know,”_ Zayn sounds small, young. “ _I did not mean –”_

Liam shakes his head, fingers once more tracing just under Zayn’s eye. Pride swells over him, coloring his face, causing his chest to widen. He smiles, fierce. _“You rode Fraeyn, and you rode another. You rode two dragons, Zayn.”_

Zayn nods, wordless. He does not understand Liam’s intense pride or his joy, but Zayn’s fear leaves him. He is not in trouble, that much is clear. When he looks past his husband to the group of Nakizi, he sees the same awe on their faces. Harry beams at him, and Louis gapes.

When he looks back at Liam, his husband kisses him, swift and sudden and sure. Zayn gasps into it. Liam pulls away, forehead tilted into Zayn’s once more. “Kater aez Draza,” he breathes. Zayn stares. “Kater aez Draza,” he repeats, louder, loud enough for the group surrounding them to hear.

Harry is the first to echo it back after a long, silent moment. “Kater aez Draza,” he smiles as he speaks.

Then Niall and Zayn’s guard, almost at once, “Kater aez Draza.”

Eli and Ani, “Kater aez Draza.”

Ezra’s young voice repeats it, “Kater aez Draza. Kater aez Draza.”

More and more and more, “Kater aez Draza.”

“Kater aez Draza.”

“Kater aez Draza.”

Soon Zayn cannot tell from whom the individual words echo, only that all say them. Even Louis’s mouth moves. The chant surrounds him, firm and strong, not a shout but not a question.

He gapes at them all, heart pounding, Fraeyn at his back. His husband grips his face, and this time when Liam says it, he sounds more than proud, more than certain. The words echo from his mouth with the certainty with which he says Zayn’s name.

“Kater aez Draza.”

_Son of Dragons._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E iz zishun aez Nalé Liam, kater aez King Yaser, ezrekiem aez Draza - I am husband of Nale Liam, son of King Yaser, rider of dragons  
> Ki ne saix. Ki ne payti tar luzo - Let me help. Let me braid your hair  
> Ta siva Nakizi - you speak Nakizi  
> Dazun payta nem luzo - come braid my hair
> 
> *Zayn and Harry have a conversation in which Zayn thinks about the last time he had sex with Liam. In his thoughts, the sex was consensual but under-negotiated.   
> **One last note: I ended this chapter very similarly to how I ended the last one, and I am not super happy about that. I just couldn't find a better place, so I'm sorry if that feels really redundant to any readers. I try, guys.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you make a plan and then literally the next day your entire life decides to fuck with it? Yeah. Surprisingly, it was my work instead of school this time. I really wish I had more time, but I'm desperate to post this chapter since I've kept you all waiting for so long again. Just know that I am still working on this, and I will not abandon it!
> 
> Also, at some point I did plan to add an index of the Nakizi words, and then another for all of the characters. I know it can get confusing.
> 
> Also, also, I got really impatient, so I'm posting this with very little editing. Please ignore any spelling/grammatical mistakes.
> 
> Chapter Warnings:  
> \- language  
> -references to past dub-con (see end notes for more detail)  
> -violence

Weaving through the shouting crowd of the Nakin, Zayn keeps his head bowed, eyes on his feet so he does not trip over the shifting men and women as they cheer, circled around clouds of dust kicked up by fighting Nakizi. The Nakin shouts, voices raising and falling with the ebb of the matches taking place, and the harsh smack of flesh against flesh interrupts the swells of noise, only to be followed by surges of shouting. Elbows and arms knock into Zayn, who does not let it waylay him, too aware of how easily he could be lost or trampled alone in this crowd.

The Nakin is chaos today.

When Liam had told him of the wrestling tournament, Zayn had not pictured this.

He had attended tourneys in Hal. Grand events held to commemorate any significant day, tourneys featured hand to hand combat, sword fighting, and horseracing in Hal, all significant measures of skill, so the men could show off their prowess. The winners of the brute strength feats were often offered positions within Hal’s guard or army. Zayn had never been allowed to participate in the risky competitions, nor had he ever desired to. He preferred the surging crowds, the joyful rush of noise, the reactions when victors and losers were declared. Tourneys were as exciting as market days, if more predictable and familiar.

The Nakin feels just as familiar today. Most of the Nakizi are gathered in the center of the camp, forming loose rings circling the shrouded figures of wrestling men and women at their feet. There are too many of these rings to count, nearly half of the Nakin participating in the competition. Just as the citizens of Hal once gathered on the castle grounds for tourney days, the entire Nakin has set up at the center of camp, food fires burning around the edges, the open clearing expanded to host so many men and women.

The announcement had come days ago, just when the restlessness which always hovered over the Nakin was reaching an audible hum. The teasing glimpses of the horizon, with promise of Xa not far from it, had grown too loud for the people to bear. For a nomadic people, Zayn has noticed that the Nakin craves excitement. Prior to this competition, Zayn had not known what they did to break up the boredom of traveling for weeks on end, but seeing the reality of it today, he understands.

Collucium, as Liam had called it, spans days, with men and women issuing challenges to whomever they wish to wrestle, match after endless match from sunrise to sundown until at last only two men or women remain. The winner of collucium earns the right to first meal, to riding at the front of the Nakin, to honor and the title Collucio. All of this Niall had explained to Zayn three mornings ago when the competition had begun, and Niall’s excitement had been obvious, for good reason as Zayn quickly realized.

Niall participates in collucium.

It is him whom Zayn seeks out currently, weaving through the circles of men and looking for a gleam of blonde hair amongst the dust. He searches through the legs of spectators, for Niall still fights.

Zayn had been surprised to learn that his gentle companion, the man he had thought no more than a translator and counselor, was the previous Collucio, a title that he had won many times over if Zayn’s vulkezi were to be believed. He had meant to ask Liam of it, but his husband had departed early that morning on a hunting trip. Watching Niall fight the previous day though had nearly convinced him. For all that the man is small and lithe, he fights with no restraint and no finesse, a tangle of limbs and drive, but he wins. Zayn has lost track of how many matches he has emerged from victorious in the past three days, but anticipation for his friend drives him to continue to witness the bouts.

A crowd twice the size of any other captures Zayn’s attention, and he knows, even before he hears Niall’s loud, wild laugh, that it is his friend’s fight. Niall’s skill is no secret among the Nakin, the Nakizi flocking to witness his fights. It is the only time in Zayn’s memory that he knows Niall to be in the center of the Nakizi, despite his place of prominence at Liam’s side.

When Zayn manages to weave his way to the front, most moving out of his way by choice, he catches the last of the fight. Niall’s arms flex, elbow locked around another Nakizi man’s throat, and though the man scrambles at the hold, he cannot break it. They lay against the dirt, Niall’s arms around his neck and their legs interwoven so that the other man has no leverage. His face purples before he drops his arms and raises his palms up, the sign of forfeit. The crowd roars as Niall releases him, standing and lifting his arms in victory. His grin is brighter than his hair, the streaks of dirt on his face wild. He offers a dusty hand down to his competitor, and the man accepts with ease. If Zayn had been surprised by the friendly atmosphere at first, he no longer is.

“Zayn,” the greeting is low but familiar, and Zayn turns to see Harry grinning at him. Louis ducks behind the taller man’s shoulder, placing himself on Zayn’s other side. If Zayn finds the protective stance curious, he says nothing. His own guards are all participating in various fights, but he would not be surprised if Liam had assigned his vulkeyun to watch over Zayn.

The Nakin has been edgy around him since his disappearance. Rumors run with the ever-present winds, but Zayn hears none of them. The suspicious silence that preempts his presence confirms their existence, but it is all air. The word dragon is hardly entwined with his name. He does not know why the Nakin knows so little, though he knows who is responsible. He wonders at Liam’s motives but does not question. The thought of Liam’s protectiveness warms him regardless.

“ _I did not expect him to still fight today_ ,” Zayn nods towards Niall, who is surrounded by Nakizi, all celebrating his victory with him.

Louis grins, sharp and proud. “ _He will fight until the last.”_

Harry shakes his head at Louis’s bold prediction, but his own grin gives away his thoughts. He clearly believes the same. Zayn’s own doubt wanes like the moon.

“E gakezi!”

The words ring over the heads and arms of celebrating Nakizi, ushering in a hush. They twist Zayn’s gun still, the dream not yet forgotten though it is dulled. _I challenge_ does not carry such heavy weight during collucium though, and the hush is not demurred but expectant. When the challenger steps forward, Zayn’s fingers twitch in surprise. He is a beast of a man, large, arms wide as the trees they have left behind, hair thick over his bare chest and legs. He will tower over Niall, and his smirk betrays his assurance.

“ _He will crush Niall_ ,” Zayn finds himself hissing, careful to quiet his words but unable to hold them back.

Harry eyes the man, doubt creeping into the green of his gaze. “ _Perhaps not_ ,” he measures his words carefully. “ _Niall will be quicker_.”

“ _He always is_ ,” Louis dismisses.

No sound or call announces the commencement of the fight. Nakizi square off, eyes meet, and the smack of flesh against flesh is the only marker. The sound is particularly loud this time as Niall ducks low and catches the larger man’s thighs. Zayn has seen him knock men flat with this same move, but this man hardly budges. He laughs, large hands wrapping quick and brutal around Niall’s sides, and his laugh is not the free of expression of joy that Niall’s is. He sounds cruel.

Zayn’s fingers flex when the man twists and suddenly Niall slams into the ground. Dust covers their forms, but when it clears, neither is on their backs. Zayn sucks in a grateful lungful of air to see Niall’s feet under him, worry not completely assuaged by the way the other man still grins. He and Niall circle, stepping forward and back in an elegant dance, broken only when flesh smacks inelegantly into flesh. Niall weaves, but the man, he jabs. His hits sound harder, his smiles more vicious with every landed punch. Zayn’s gut twists.

“Harry.”

Harry frowns at the fight, feeling what Zayn feels. The friendly atmosphere is departing swiftly, though most of the crowd has not caught on. Something in the other man’s stance, his grin, the gleam of his eyes belays the spirit of the competition. Niall’s smile falters, blue eyes dark with curiosity as they dart over the man. When he weaves this time, he ducks behind the man, forcing him to spin and unbalancing him. The man nearly roars.

“Louis –” Harry starts.

He is interrupted by the swell of triumphant shouting when Niall sweeps the man’s legs out from under him. The thud of him hitting the dirt thunders, nearly drowning out Niall’s light laugh but not quite. The man lies stunned, and the crowd grows louder, sensing a defeat on the horizon. Niall’s hand begins to descend, offering the same hand up he has offered all the rest.

When the man shoots to his feet unexpectedly, a word flies from his lips in a spray of spit, and his smile is devoured by a scowl. “Pinimk!”

The Nakizi, Zayn has learned, speak louder in silence than they do with words, and this silence bodes ill. The sharp hiss air between teeth announces Louis’s fierce displeasure, but it is Niall’s reaction that Zayn watches.

The pale boy hardens to stone, his back as well as carved from the canyons he calls home, and his eyes flinty as chips of precious gemstone. No hint of smile or laughter exists on his face, and Zayn had not realized until this moment how bright Niall holds himself. When he pulls his hand back, slowly and measured, his stance becomes a spoken threat.

“ _Repeat yourself_.” For how often Zayn has heard Niall’s voice, he has never heard it like this.

The crowd waits, breathless, and Zayn thinks for a moment that it will tip back into the high-spirited competition, that the man will hold his words. But his smile betrays him before his words do.

“Pinimk,” he repeats, slow and lingering over every syllable. He relishes the word, and this time the crowd hisses nearly as one.

“What does it mean?” Zayn demands, quick and quiet. “Enemy?”

He expects Harry to answer, but Louis’s hiss is the response. “Outsider.”

And as though it was the sign Niall waited for, he smiles, sharp and mean. As cold as a dagger and as swift, he darts forward. The sound of the collision echoes like a rockslide, a cacophony of bone against bone, with only a thin layer of skin between them. Fists fly and the wrestling of earlier fades from memory completely under this new assault.

Zayn gapes. The fight is like nothing he has ever seen, and he could not compare its likeness. It is so far from the ceremonial fights of his wedding, from Liam’s fight with the challenger, from the earlier competition bouts that he does not want to consider it a fight at all. This is brutality in its original form, and when he sees the first arc of blood fly, he understands why. This is more than a fight.

Zayn had seen two stray dogs fighting over a loaf of bread once, in the streets of Hal. The fight had been loud, above all else, barking and yipping noisy enough to deafen any passersby. Bloody, the two had scrambled for the upper hand, through whatever means necessary. Zayn had barely understood what was happening before a terrified yip had broken in half and one dog lay with its neck between the jaws of the other. He had sworn he could hear the snap of its neck, and his guards had to force him to stop staring at the corpse, long after.

He fears he will be staring at a corpse at the end of this fight as well.

They claw at each other, more animal than man, and when fist meets flesh Zayn flinches. His eye does not bear the training to watch this fight; raised a diplomat, prince of a peaceful city, the fluidity of their movements, their skill, it evades his eyes. His own training was superfluous, revealed as inadequate in the face of this desperate brawl. The two men fall to the dirt with a rattling thump, Niall on top. His pale hands are coated in dirt as they curl into fists that smash, inelegant, against the other man’s skull, over and over. The man fights back, clawing and scraping, but Niall locks his legs and will not be thrown. His knees capture the man’s shoulders, caging in his head and neck. His movement is limited, not flexible enough to trap Niall with his own legs. Zayn knows suddenly, with whom this victory will lie.

When the man’s arms stop scrambling at Niall, when they flop useless to his sides, Niall fists his shirt and heaves the man’s chest up before slamming his upper body back into the ground. His skull makes a sickening, wet thud as it hits the ground. Niall does it twice more, each movement seeming to last a lifetime. The clench of Niall’s fists, the dust that clings to them both, the meaty thud of flesh meeting ground, all stand out as singular sights, embedded in Zayn’s memories.

Zayn cannot look away.

Niall releases the man the third time he slams him down, and silence sings over the body. The silence wraps around Niall’s heaving chest and muffles his labored breathing. Zayn stares, and he blinks; but the image does not resolve itself. His friend still stands over the body of the man he just killed. An incomprehensible sight, his translator friend, the victor in a deadly bout.

“I do not understand,” he whispers. He clings to the beginning of the fight, the word that set it all off, trying to trace the path they took from there to here, as though if he can understand why that word appeared, he can understand why this sight greets him now. “Niall is no outsider.”

“Look at him Zayn,” Louis’s mouth is a tight, unforgiving line. “He is not Nakizi born.”

“But…” But he is Nakizi, Zayn wants to say. He rides with them. He lives with them. He speaks their tongue and wears their clothes and braids his hair. He has a killing band; one which Zayn had never considered until now, when another lies in Niall’s future. Niall is as Nakizi as Harry, as Louis, as Liam. “He is vulkeyun,” he settles on, because there is no word more Nakizi than that, no title more central to this people.

“Liam named him so, but only after he proved himself.”

“How?” If the Nakizi truly still view Niall as an outsider, Zayn does not understand what would sway them to allow their most honored position to go to him.

“Collucio is won through fighting,” Louis stares dispassionately at the body of the man underneath Niall. “Vulkeyun is won through killing.”

“Niall… He is not…” A killer, Zayn thinks, but he is; the evidence lies on the dusty ground. The evidence is in the killing band already wrapped around his arm.

Harry shakes his head, eyes sad but face set. “Fighting is no competition where Niall comes from. Fighting is survival in the slave markets.”

Zayn sucks in a sharp gasp of air, and Niall’s head shoots up. His blue eyes are cold, empty of the familiarity Zayn knows. Whatever spell held them all, it breaks. Niall stands, and the Nakizi shift with him. When he raises his hand, coated in dust that darkens with the blood it clings to, the crowd cheers, no hesitation among them.

They shout for him, their Collucio, their victor, their brother.

Zayn stares, and Niall stares back, unrepentant. He is not cold, Zayn realizes; he is stone, as Zayn had thought earlier. He is unmoved, unshaken, and the world cannot change him. Eons alone could wear him down, and the hardships of this one lifetime, a lifetime in the darkness of the Northern slave markets apparently, hold nothing to that. He is what he was created to be, and calling him a killer does not convey the depth of him, the solidness of him. Killer does not define him, nor slave, nor outsider.

He is Nakizi, and this is the Nakin claiming him as theirs.

When the crowd shouts anew, Zayn joins his voice with theirs.

 

* * *

 

“ _Niall killed a man today_.” The words come out more hesitant than Zayn would like, but he is not sure he should be broaching this subject with his husband.

The set of Liam’s shoulders stiffens, and he looks back at Zayn, eyes evaluating. Their tent is quiet around them, as it has been every evening since they departed for Xa; for once though, Zayn’s thoughts stray from the strange distance between him and his husband. He only thinks of Niall, Niall and his history, Niall and the dead Nakizi man.

Despite his absence during the fight, Liam does not look surprised by this information. Louis or Harry must have informed him about his return, Zayn thinks, but he had hidden himself away by then. He does not fear Niall, but he was not prepared to see him, not yet.

“ _He did_ ,” Liam allows after a moment, turning to face Zayn fully. He is wary. It is obvious in the flickering of his eyes and the set of his body. “ _It is a part of collucium, at times._ ”

Zayn shakes his head. That is not what troubles him, the possible brutality of the competition. He accepts, he understands, this part of the Nakizi way. What troubles him is the conversation he had after. “ _Harry said he was from the slave markets, from the north. Is that true_?”

Liam tilts his head, evaluating as always. “ _He is.”_

He offers nothing further, and Zayn bites his lip to stem the tide of questions.

His understanding of the northern slave market is limited, but he knows enough. He knows that parents trade unwanted children like another good, selling the mouths they cannot or will not feed. He cannot help but picture a shadowed figure, holding out greedy hands for a crying babe. He imagines overfilled houses, filthy and ruined, with children in rags. He thinks of the slaves wealthy families sometimes bring in, of the pleasure houses rumored to exist in every Bravenian city. He cannot picture Niall there, not as the babe, as the child, as the slave, as the whore. That is not his friend.

But he thinks of Niall’s mastery of Core, of his disdain for the Cities, which he cannot contain, and he understands. He would not care for a people who had never cared for him.

“ _Does this change him_?” Liam wonders, and Zayn understands his husband’s question.

Does this change who Niall is?

Zayn tilts his chin up, eyes hard and unfeeling. “Yn. Hi ez nk pinimk. Hi ez Nakizi.”

When Liam smiles, it is sharp with pride.

 

* * *

 

The morning dawns bright and windless the day they will enter Xa, and Zayn stands on the rock overlook where the Nakin set up, to stare at the foreign City. He has never been so far from his home, and his fingers twitch with a sickening mix of longing and nerves. He misses Hal; he is wary of entering a strange place.

A warmth at his elbow is his only warning before a familiar snout nudges at his arm. Fraeyn snorts out a thin stream of smoke in greeting, which Zayn batts away with a laugh.

“No need for that,” he admonishes her, fingers reaching to scratch under her chin to soften his words. “It is hardly cold enough to warrant.”

Harry had informed him, sometime after Zayn’s unplanned flight, that as a fire breathing dragon, Fraeyn shows affection through smoke and flame. She warms those she cares for. Zayn had thought it a natural part of her being, as she does it nearly every time he sees her, but he cannot deny the rush of pride he feels at understanding differently now. Fraeyn has been showing her affection for him since the day they met, so he tries to reciprocate as he can.

Fraeyn looks unimpressed with him this morning and fans her wings out to stir the air.

Zayn laughs. “No do not. It is the first day the wind has not torn at us all.”

It is true; Zayn had not expected this last leg of their journey to be unpleasant, but as the sands shifted back to rock the closer and closer they came to Xa, the more the winds picked up. Something about the canyons they near, he thinks, affects it, but regardless, he dislikes it. The wind stirs the sand, for one, which smarts against any exposed skin, and the wind is dry, adding unpleasantness to already warm days.

Fraeyn, however, seems to relish the warmth. Zayn has taken to riding at the rear of the Nakizi once more to be nearer the dragons. Fraeyn will, at her own will alone, walk beside them on occasion. He basks in the time he can spend with her. It was only one of his motivations however; his other was talking to Niall.

The blonde man had shown up at Zayn’s tent to collect him, as he had done nearly every morning since Zayn’s wedding, but he had been distant that first morning, unhappy and tense. Zayn had absolved to resolve that as soon as he was able.

Riding at the rear of the Nakizi had given them some privacy, but Zayn had waited to speak until the bright glimmer of Auri, high above them, caught Niall’s eyes. His shoulders had loosened as she flew overhead, as if in greeting, and only once she had departed did Zayn choose to speak.

His simple greeting of, “Collucio,” had snagged Niall’s attention, but the sharp look of defensiveness about him faded once he witnessed Zayn’s grin. In the end, that one exchange was all they said, and it was enough. Nothing had changed between them, and Zayn saw no reason that anything should.

“Zishun.”

Zayn turns to see Liam winding his way around Fraeyn’s side, trailing a greeting hand along her scales. Fraeyn relaxes under the attention, preening, and Zayn has to hide a snort. It is hardly for him to judge, when, once Liam’s hand transfers from Fraeyn’s scales to Zayn’s wrist, he feels himself do the same. He swears he can hear Fraeyn huff something close to a snort of her own.

“ _Do you still wish to enter Xa with us_?” Liam asks, brown eyes warm and relaxed. His fingers trace idly over the inside of Zayn’s wrist, and Zayn represses a shudder. Liam has been more tactile lately than he has been since before Albin, and Zayn is desperate not to discourage the behavior. He still aches for his husband, still has to take himself in hand most mornings after Liam leaves, but he orders himself to be patient. Harry’s advice haunts him, but he cannot work up the nerve to suggest intimacy to his warrior husband. It is not his place, not as a treaty husband.

“ _I do_ ,” Zayn reassures, grateful that Liam asked the first time and grateful that he seeks to make certain, but Zayn will not let the events of Albin define him. It is different besides. Xa, he has heard, is not a City like Albin or Hal, or even the others. It is a City ruled by council rather than king and its prominence at trade makes it less strict than other Cities. Zayn can admit his intrigue at the promise of a City rumored to be the bridge between civilization and the Nakizi, especially now that he understands the Nakin.

Moreover, he knows that Xa frequently hosts more than one Nakin at a time, and he hungers for interaction with other Nakizi people, curious despite himself. Besides, both Liam and Niall have reassured him that no grand entrance or presentation of him need be made this time, so he will be free to wander with his vulkezi.

Some of his excitement must show for Liam smiles and touches Zayn’s chest over his heart briefly. “ _Come then. Let us go.”_

 

* * *

 

As promised, Zayn is not made to parade himself through the City, and when the Nakizi contingent Liam had selected enters the city gates, a fuss is hardly made. Excitement gleams on curious faces when the Nakin is identified as the Nakin aez Draza, but the dragons do not follow them in this time. They are free to fly overhead however, and Zayn catches sight of Fraeyn’s gleaming red body, hardly more than a blur, when he departs from the main contingent.

They will go on towards the city center and set up trading stalls, and Liam will seek out the council to pay his respects and receive the official allowance to trade in Xa. Zayn knows that he should attend him, that undoubtedly rumors of their marriage has reached Xa by now, but Liam did not make the demand of him.

He lets the loud and crowded streets of Xa capture his attention instead. Xa is the largest of the Cities, he knows, but he had been unprepared for the reality of its sheer size. The crowds alone are thicker than he has ever witnessed, even on the most crowded market days in Hal. He thinks it ought to feel suffocating, but as he slips through the throngs of people, his vulkezi keeping deft pace, he feels free. There is a certain anonymity in the varied people of this city, the sheer size of it all. No one gives him a second glance, and as they pass several Nakizi, he realizes that even his guards do not receive second looks.

“ _How many Nakins are in Xa_?” he wonders, looking over his shoulder to see who is nearest to answer his query. Surprisingly, Louis stands closest to his back.

More surprisingly, he answers. “ _Two full Nakin camp on the other side of the Xa, making one last journey out of the canyons before winter falls. No other Nakin travels as far as we do, so we are the last to return.”_

“ _You can spot them by their differences_ ,” Niall chimes in, a step behind Louis. “ _Their hair will be braided differently, and their bands will be thinner or thicker. The Nakin aez Eruba will be easy to spot, for they always wear the stones they mine._ ”

The Nakin of Red, Zayn remembers from his brief lessons with Niall. His mastery of the language is not quite complete, but Niall had deemed it time to move onto the complexities of the Nakizi people at large. The history lessons have the feel of myths to them, but they capture Zayn’s mind. The particular Nakin that Niall refers to is so named because of their ability at mining red stones from the canyons. He remembers the red gleam of the stone in his old dagger and thinks of seeking out some of their traders. He would like something else with a stone the color of Fraeyn’s scales, he thinks.

They wander freely through the stalls, Louis and Niall hovering over his shoulders with his vulkezi further behind. They are all more relaxed here than they were in Albin, and it makes Zayn wonder at how accepting the other Cities truly are. It worries him, the marked differences between the way the Nakizi are in Xa to how they were in his own City. He does not like the implications.           

As they move further into the depths of the city center, the stalls set up for trade grow thicker until the streets are nothing but narrow pathways. The press of bodies becomes almost unbearably tight, and the shouting of the traders can barely be distinguished. Zayn’s hears shouts for wine, for weapons, for wares. His neck strains with the effort to take in everything, and it is almost a relief to find his elbow in Niall’s hold, guiding him forward and towards what looks like a wider gap between the stalls.

When they enter the wider path, they almost run into another group of Nakizi. The man in front immediately catches Zayn’s eye, his hair braided elaborately in a style overdone when compared to the way Zayn has seen his Nakin do. Red rings adorn every finger and one glimmers in his ear. They are from the Nakin aez Eruba, Zayn realizes, and when Niall greets the man in front with a respectful “Nalé Dremon,” Zayn is not surprised. Everything about this man’s appearance announces his importance, in a way that Liam has never attempted to do.

The way the man focuses on Zayn, even as he acknowledges Niall’s greeting with a nod, sets Zayn on edge. It is not different from the way Verrick once viewed him, though Zayn had known Verrick’s interest spawned from his marriageable daughter. He has no idea what this man desires from him, only that his desire is blatant.

He barely pays mind to the greetings of the rest of Zayn’s party, not bothering to nod at them all. His focus is unwavering.

“City prince,” he rumbles, voice deep which matches his appearance. He is a broad man, broader than Liam, though shorter as well. He is not unattractive, Zayn thinks, though the way his eyes move, restlessly, makes him appear so. The broken Core he speaks in sets Zayn’s teeth on edge.

Still, he knows his place. “Sashuin, Nalé Dremon.”

Surprise flickers over the man’s face, and he demands, “Ta siva Nakizi?”

It is said so differently from when Liam asked him the same question that Zayn almost wants to say no. “Yn,” he replies instead, careful to keep his voice polite.

When the Nalé steps forward, Zayn’s backward step is a gut reaction. “ _Beautiful and smart,”_ he rasps. _“Liam does not know what he has won.”_

The threat is clear.

Zayn sees Louis make an aborted movement, as though to step between them, but Zayn drops a hand behind him to quell the hot-tempered man. His gut turns, but diplomacy is one area he can excel at. He understands, now, what he sees in this man’s eyes, but it is nothing he has not seen before. He can ignore unwanted desire. “ _He knows,”_ he responds, calm and sure.

“ _He would not let from his side if he truly did,”_ the other Nalé smirks. _“A pretty boy like you should not be left…unattended.”_

Unease circles through the Nakizi on all sides, and Zayn, novice though he is to this language, hears the nuance placed on the last word. He does not understand it, but he hears it.

“ _Liam attends me as any husband would.”_

The Nalé throws his head back and laughs. It is the laugh of a self-important man, commanding and filling space as though certain of his right to do so. Zayn hates men who laugh in this manner. “ _I have heard different, pretty one. Tell me, has he fucked you?”_

Zayn cannot help his visible recoil, and the man’s smile turns sharp.

“ _Whispers reach my ears that he did not claim you. Such a pretty one to be unclaimed. Tell me –”_

_“Enough!”_ Louis pushes ahead, shoving Zayn back towards Niall in the same movement. His hand rests on his sword with dancing fingers. Zayn, stunned and uncomprehending, allows Niall to grip his shoulders and tug him further away. _“You speak to the husband of the Nalé of Dragons. Remember your manners before I remind you of them.”_

The man, for Zayn will not give him the same title as his husband, a title that this filth clearly does not deserve, holds up his hands in peace, but his smile never falters. Zayn’s guard outnumbers his own, and he must know this, for he puts up no fight. He fixes his eyes on Zayn as he backs away, his men following him with wary gazes. “ _I mean no offence. The pretty one should not wander unclaimed if he does not wish someone else to claim him.”_

Louis snarls, a tangle of noise that cannot possible be words, and when he steps forward this time, his sword slides in its scabbard. The noise sobers the crowd at once, people who had been paying them no mind immediately parting and giving the grouping space. The other man’s eyes flicker to the naked steel, and he sneers. He leaves though, not another word making it past his lips. The other Nakizi men with him have no reaction as they follow him away.

The entire encounter is over in a handful of moments.

“Louis,” Niall calls. “ _Put it away. We do not fight in Xa.”_

Louis grunts at him but obligingly sheathes his blade. His frustration rolls off of him in waves, and it tightens the expressions on Zayn’s vulkezi, who have surrounded him without his notice.

He feels windblown, askew. He feels dirty, the memory of that man’s eyes on him like a physical presence. “Niall,” his voice is weak for some reason. “Niall what did he mean, unclaimed? Liam, he – at our wedding, we –”

“Zayn,” Niall cuts him off. “Now is not the time. We must leave. I do not –”

“ _He should know_ ,” Louis snarls, whirling around suddenly. His anger turns to Zayn, who flinches in surprise. “ _He should know what Liam has sacrificed for –”_

_“Stop,”_ Niall hisses, eyes frantically cutting to Zayn. “ _He is not at fault for this, Louis. You know Liam made that decision on his own.”_

“ _What decision?”_ Zayn demands. Neither answer, and something like fear clogs his throat. “ _What decision?”_

_“I told him,”_ Louis barks, unable to hold his tongue, even as Niall hisses at him. “ _I told him to bed you as he should!”_

_“He did!”_

_“He did not!”_ Louis’s shout is deafening. The people surrounding them continue to part around them, as though expecting violence. “ _He bedded you like a City prince, like –”_

_“Not in the Nakizi way,”_ Niall breaks in, eyes hard as he glares Louis into silence. “ _He did not bed you in the Nakizi way.”_

_“He did not claim me,”_ Zayn tries out the unfamiliar word, gut twisting when he sees the way his vulkezi suddenly duck their gaze. Even Niall’s eyes dart away. “ _What does that mean? What is the difference?”_

Nobody speaks, and the silence between them all feels much louder than the crowds do. Zayn’s gut roils because he thinks he understands, but he has no proof. He does not know.

“Louis,” he prompts, desperate enough to provoke Louis into responding.

Louis glares at him, but then he shakes his head and looks away. “ _He should have claimed you, as all the Nakizi do. He is Nakizi, and he should not change for you. He cannot change for you.”_

_“I do not ask –”_

_“But he does!”_ Louis cuts him off, furious and frustrated. “ _He does because you are not the husband he needs! You are an indulgence, and you are a danger to everything he wants, everything he could be!”_

Zayn recoils as though struck, smarting along his face which flushes hot as though he had truly been hit. He shrinks further when no one refutes the shouted statement. For the first time in many weeks, he feels alone and small.

His voice is both of those things, when he looks to the ground and whispers, “Take me back to the Nakin.”

Once, he might have thought of saying take me home instead. Once he would have meant it, but not today. Not any longer.

 

* * *

 

Later, when darkness gives him a shroud to hide his shame under, when most in the camp have settled, he seeks Ani outside of his tent. She goes to rise when she sees him, but he stills her movements. He kneels beside her, and he whispers his query. It had taken him the time since they had departed Xa to work up the courage, to puzzle out what he thinks, but he knows now what he must ask.

“ _When Liam took me to our tent to bed me, at our wedding, that was not the way of the Nakizi.”_

Ani shakes her head, slowly, as though uncertain. He can see conflict in her eyes, but ultimately her loyalty to him forces her to be honest.

Zayn would feel terribly about taking advantage of that on any other day, but he needs this answer. “ _He should have claimed me,”_ he prompts, watching every flicker of her eyes. She is uncomfortable, but he pushes. “ _He should have claimed me in front of the Nakin. That is what Louis attempted to get him to do. That is why they shouted on the wedding day.”_

Ani bites her lip, but she nods her head.

Zayn does not prompt her to words again, sick enough at her confirmation. His stomach twists, and he has to bite back bile at the idea of Liam fucking him in front of the Nakin on his wedding day. He thinks of everyone witnessing that moment, of how brutal and powerful such an event would be, how demeaning for him. It would have broken him, he knows. He carries no false modesty on this topic. Being claimed like that, being fucked like that, it would have broken him in half.

Underneath that horror though, underneath that sickness, he feels something else. He feels gratitude for Liam, who, despite knowing nothing of Zayn, understood he would never willingly participate in a claiming like that. He feels gratitude that Liam cared enough to subvert the tradition for Zayn’s sake. It is nothing he would have expected of his husband at the time, and it feels him with a desperate longing for Liam.

He wants to ask Ani about Louis’s other statements, about what he meant when he accused Zayn of hindering Liam’s wants, of not being the husband Liam needs, but he sees her discomfort. He knows he should push her no further.

“Gunsuim, Ani,” he murmurs instead, clasping one hand to her shoulder before disappearing back into his tent. His sleep comes late that night, and yet, it still comes before Liam does.

 

* * *

 

His decision to stay with the Nakin the next day is not his choice but Liam’s. His husband, and all of the traders, are gone before he wakes. He tries not to feel hurt, but he is unsure of his success.

He spends the morning with Fraeyn, to distract himself. Niall had finally illuminated parts of the dragon ceremony, after Zayn’s flight, and Zayn thinks to begin bonding with his dragon. He rubs her scales, as he has done, and he speaks to her, familiarizing her with his voice. These are the first steps to bonding, ensuring the dragon is comfortable with him and knows his voice. The next step is to begin issuing her commands, but Fraeyn already follows Zayn’s commands. Still, he varies what he asks, wondering where the lines are drawn. He has not yet found a command that Fraeyn will not follow.

“ _Lift,”_ he instructs her now, tapping the edge of her right wing. She huffs at him but lifts it up. Zayn’s fingers dance over the thin webbing, marveling at it just a bit. He wanders under the shadow cast by her wing, reaching up to trace the veins he can see. She truly is a beautiful creature, and so full of life. Her personality, for all that Zayn had not thought dragons would have personalities, matches his own, he thinks. That initial connection he felt with her, when their eyes met in Hal so many months ago, has only grown stronger. Between spending time with her and Liam, Zayn thinks he desires nothing else.

His fingers clench at the thought of Liam, and Fraeyn whips her head around to glare at him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking down. Fraeyn ducks closer and huffs along the back of his neck. It feels like a gesture of comfort, and Zayn lets himself sink into it. He closes his eyes and imagines flying away on Fraeyn’s back. He thinks she would allow it, though he does not know how long she would willingly stay away from the Nakin. The Nakizi believe only the bonds with riders keep the dragons loyal, but Zayn is not sure. He does not understand why they would remain after hatching if that was the case.

He does not deny the existence of the bond, which even incomplete in his case, thrums in his chest, but he wonders at the myths. Curiosity still seems to be a defining trait, for him.

“Would you let us fly away?” he asks Fraeyn, meeting her curious gold eyes. Her head tilts in a manner laughably similar to Liam’s. The reminder makes him sigh. “I could not leave him.”

It does not feel dangerous to admit this truth here, with only Fraeyn as his witness. The thought has been lingering in his head for some time, hushed briefly immediately after Albin, but not gone. He feels a bond with Fraeyn, but he feels something equally as strong for his husband. He will not call it love, but not because he cannot. He fears a line was crossed without his realization, and the idea fills him with a choking desire to both run and make impossible demands of his husband.

He refuses to do either, despite entertaining thoughts of both, and the result is this: he feels stuck.

Fraeyn stares at him with something like compassion, and Zayn groans as he rests his forehead against her side. If even his dragon pities him, he does not know what hope he has.

“Should I leave you two alone?” a voice calls out.

Zayn rolls his head rather than lifting it and sees Harry grinning at him, head ducked to see Zayn under the shelter of Fraeyn’s wing. If he is surprised that Harry is not in Xa, he does not show it.

Harry teases him, and Zayn means to tease back when he says, “Perhaps you should. Clearly no one else desires my presence.”

It falls flat, judging by the way Harry’s smile slips into a frown.

Zayn turns his gaze away, refusing to apologize for voicing what he feels. He tires of keeping it all in. The Nakizi may not see value in speaking about what they feel, but he was not raised to be mute on these subjects.

“Zayn,” Harry calls once more, gently. “Let me take you somewhere.”

“For what purpose?”

“To meet someone.” Harry’s grins are always infectious, and this one is no different. Zayn feels a tugging at his lips before he has even stepped out of the shelter of Fraeyn’s wing.

“And this someone would be?”

“A surprise.”

“Of course,” Zayn teases, the tone coming naturally to him this time. He turns to trace along Fraeyn’s snout, which she has obligingly ducked down for. “Hope you do not mind.”

Fraeyn blinks slowly at him, and it is not hard to imagine she thinks him slow. He laughs, despite himself, and pats her one more time before stepping away. Fraeyn flutters her wings, stretching them, and then shoots upwards. He will never get over her sudden departures, marveling at her speed alone. He watches her until she disappears, as is his wont, and grins sheepishly at the way Harry smirks at him knowingly.

“Come,” Harry urges, excitement in his voice.

 

* * *

 

They traipse through the camp, as only Harry seems to manage to do. Many Nakizi greet Harry, who is perhaps infamous for his role with the dragons, but surprisingly, many greet Zayn as well. He thinks it has been a gradual change, for he has not noticed it until this moment. It helps settle the unease that has sat in his gut since the day before.

They pass through most of camp, nearing the outer edges. Zayn is surprised; this is not an area of camp he normally ventures towards. Though the dragons rest on the edges of the Nakin, for practicality’s sake, only unimportant Nakizi do. Children and Nakizi who are not warriors typically shelter within the protection of the center of camp, with the warriors a ring around them, and the traders just outside of that. Zayn does not know who is left to dwell at the edges, save people unskilled, unwed, and without children.

Curiously, the outer edge Harry leads them towards is nearer the canyons, as though at the front. Zayn wonders if this person Harry wishes him to meet rides towards the front of the Nakin during travel. That would imply some importance after all.

When they stop outside of a tent where a small fire burns merrily despite the early hour and the warm day and only a Nakizi woman greets them, he is even more confused.

“ _Zayn, this is Jesy,”_ Harry gestures between them. “ _Jesy you know who this is.”_ Some hidden joke lies in his statement judging by the quick flash of the girl’s sharp smile, but Zayn does not understand it; everyone knows who he is, if not on sight then by name.

“Sashuin, kater aez draza,” her voice does not stumble over the words, as though she has said them may times, and it takes Zayn by surprise. Only Liam has called him that, though he supposes it was echoed by those within earshot. Still, it is not a title he has heard since.

He pauses a moment to take her measure before responding. Long hair, lightened drastically by the sun he thinks, hangs like curtains around her rounded face. Dark kohl rims her eyes in the style has seen some Nakizi women, and a few men, wear. A large tattoo of an eye brazenly adorns her arm; it is the first tattoo outside of bands that Zayn has seen. Also, curiously, she wears a long skirt with the standard leather vest, rather than riding leathers. Zayn does not know that he has seen anyone wear something else, besides the very young and the very old. Her eyes are bright with intelligence, and her youth is apparent, though something else in her eyes hints at knowledge beyond her years.

“Sashuin, Jesy,” he eventually says, careful to keep his voice polite.

Her grin grows at this, as though she guesses at his uncertainty, and it amuses her. “ _You are more timid than I have seen.”_

He trips over the statement, confused. “ _I do not know when you would have seen me acting otherwise.”_ Unless she had seen him land on Auri’s back, which would explain how she knew the name Liam had called him. Zayn thinks he would have remembered her among the crowd though. Nothing about her blends in or lends to forgetfulness.

She laughs, and he hears Harry muffle laughter of his own behind him. When her eyes turn to Harry, she is playfully accusing. “ _You have not told him.”_

Harry shrugs. “ _I did not see the point. He is hardly likely to believe without seeing. They have no one like you in the Cities.”_

_“They have no one like me anywhere,”_ she states, bold and shameless about it. For that reason alone, Zayn thinks he believes her.

“ _And why is that?”_ he asks, unable to help prompting her.

She turns those light, knowing eyes on him, pinning him with her gaze, and smiles once more. It is a different smile this time, weightier somehow. “ _No one else can see what I see. No one else can hear what I hear. No one else can understand what I can understand.”_

Repressing the shiver her words invoke takes more work than Zayn would like, and judging by her expression, she seems to know this as well. It is unsettling, feeling so known, and Zayn’s eyes track to her tattoo without thought.

He had once heard rumors…

“ _I am what you have heard of.”_

His eyes snap back to hers, wide. “You cannot be.” When her brow furrows, Zayn repeats the statement in Nakizi.

Understanding lights her face. “ _Your people may not believe in Seers, Zayn, but that does not make us any less real.”_

_“Seers are not real.”_

_“And yet here I am.”_ Amusement still colors her tone, thankfully, for Zayn had not meant to offend her with that statement. Yet, he cannot believe it. Jesy eyes him and then shakes her head. “ _You need not believe, if you do not wish to, but I believe Harry has brought you here to hear one of my prophecies regardless. It involves you. Would you like to hear it?”_

A glance at Harry confirms this, and Zayn pauses before he nods his head.

Jesy raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “ _It is not a prophecy to hear if you are uncertain.”_

_“I am certain.”_

Her smile this time is pleased. _“Listen to me then, Zayn, once prince of Hal, son of dragons, and husband of the Nalé._

_“I have Seen you long before we reached your City. I knew your name long before that. It has haunted my ears at every utterance of Liam’s name for his entire life. Every step he has taken has brought him closer to you, and you to him. Your meeting was writ before either of you were born,”_ her voice changes as she speaks, becoming deeper, more even. It falls into a cadence, her eyes losing focus as though she gazes elsewhere. Her words are absolute.

_“Liam is the one true Nalé, but his shoulders do not bear the weight of the world until you touch him. When he straightens with you by his side, he stands tall as the dragons gathered behind you both, and when you lead him up the stairs to the high seat of Kiza, your thrones watch over all the land and peace, true peace, is known.”_

Zayn gapes, all the air expelled from his chest so that he feels he must gasp for it to return. The world is muffled around him, far away, and he wants to doubt her. He wants to call her a liar and a fanatic, but the words rob him of this ability. They ring in his head, over and over, remembered despite himself. Now that he has heard them once, he knows with an unshakable certainty, he will never forget.

He does not come back to himself until Jesy smiles at him. The sharp glint of her teeth awakens his mind.

_“You cannot_ …” his voice is weak, and he does not finish the sentence.

_“You may not be certain, like I thought you must be before you could hear this prophecy,”_ Jesy allows. “ _But now that you have heard it, you will be.”_

_“I do not –”_

_“You do,”_ she cuts him off, firm _. “You have. You will. Such is your past, your present, your future, Zayn, kater aez draza, zishun aez Nalé, neza aez Nakin aez Draza. There is nothing else in this life for you.”_

* * *

He does not remember leaving Jesy’s tent. He is dizzy with her words, with their meaning, with their implications for his life.

Harry walks slowly beside him, quiet until, all at once he speaks. “I had thought her prophecy would settle you, but I see the opposite is true.”

Zayn does not ask how Harry knew he was unsettled. “It is not important,” he dismisses.

“ _You underestimate the importance of your emotions, to yourself and the ones who care for you.”_

Zayn blinks. It is the first time he has heard Harry be rebuking of him, rather than Louis or some other tormentor. He finds he does not like the gentle criticism from the caring man. “Liam has heard this prophecy.”

“He has,” Harry allows, words slower in Core.

Truth slips from Zayn’s tongue without much thought. “ _He cares for the prophecy then, not me.”_

Harry halts, confusion wrinkling his brow. “Zayn –”

“It is not important,” he repeats, though he supposes that is not true. It is important, to him, but it ridiculous that it is. He had thought their marriage a political alliance from the beginning, so a prophecy which confirms this should not unsettle him. What should it matter if Liam wished to wed him before laying eyes on him, or directly after? Would it be so much better to be desired for his appearance, rather than some prophecy?

“ _What troubles you? Truly?”_ Harry demands.

“ _I would have Liam love me for myself.”_

He did not mean to admit his largest hope aloud, but he cannot take it back. In his heart of hearts, this truth has always been. He would have his husband love him for himself. He had hope that Liam would grow to love him, that the alliance would not be the only thing between them, but he cannot see that happening when the prophecy fails to occur.

And it will not occur. Of this he is certain.

_“…your thrones watch over all the land…”_ Jesy had said, but Zayn has no such seat to offer. He has no power with which to produce it.  He cannot even make Liam a King of Hal.

“ _You are mistaken,”_ Harry says eventually, eyes saddened once more. “ _The prophecy does not change how he feels.”_

_“It does,”_ Zayn argues. “ _It did before he even laid eyes on me.”_

_“The prophecy gave him hope,”_ Harry corrects. “ _The prophecy still gives him hope. Your beauty gives him lust. Your heritage gives him power, but you, Zayn, you are what he loves.”_

He does not believe it. He knows, the way he has always known, that Liam does not love him, but now it feels as though that future has been torn from his grasping fingers. This prophecy that Liam apparently wants, this power that he has apparently wanted, Zayn cannot give it to him.

Frustration flashes over Harry’s face, and he halts suddenly. Zayn is forced to halt with him or leave him behind entirely, and he is not certain he wishes to be done with this conversation yet.

“ _You are what he wants.”_

_“I am not.”_

_“Zayn –”_

_“He does not touch me!”_ The words erupt from him, bitter and black. Harry’s eyes widen, and Zayn looks away when he continues, “ _He does not touch me. Rumors stir about us, but still, he will not lay a hand on me.”_

When Harry answers, his voice is gentle once more. “He waits for your permission, after the last time.”

“He does not need to.”

“Perhaps he believes he does.”

Much weight rests behind Harry’s words, and it takes Zayn a moment to understand where it could come from. He is surprised when he lands on an answer, one which makes little sense to him. “He – it was not unwanted,” he stumbles over the words in his haste, watching Harry’s every reaction for some indication that his guess is right.

“Does he know that?” Harry prompts.

Zayn hesitates. He does not know. He had thought…

The events in the tent seem so clear to him. His fear – his denial – he only did not want Liam to penetrate him. He did not want to hurt, but Liam did not hurt him. Liam had given him pleasure, in the end. Zayn may have wished for more privacy, for more gentleness, but he remembers with heat the firm feeling of Liam’s fingers digging into his hips. He did not dislike it; he did not stop it.

It was not rape.

“He waits for your permission,” Harry repeats, and his words are certain this time, as though he has heard this truth from Liam’s own mouth. “He will not touch you without your desire again.”

“He is Nalé,” Zayn does not know why he argues still, only that he feels he must. “My desires should not matter to him.”

Harry frowns. “If you believe that, you do a disservice to your feelings, and to his.”

Hope twists in Zayn’s gut, despite its earlier disappearance. Zayn looks away, out over the camp that he might have begun to consider home, over the people he might have begun to consider his. Admitting that he wants this, the camp, and the Nakizi, and Liam, it is hard. Wanting any of these things would have shamed him in Hal.

“You seem certain of Liam’s feelings,” he says eventually, unable to look at Harry.

When Harry replies, it sets Zayn’s heart running. “I am. Perhaps you should be too.”

* * *

           

Zayn is playing among the Nakizi children when Liam and his retinue return from Xa that evening. The children are the one group who has accepted him whole-heartedly and without question, and so he is happily engrossed in their game. His distraction is so absolute, he does not notice Liam until the children shriek “Nalé!”

He glances up from where he is bent over, retrieving the sewn sack of dirt they were using as a ball, and the outline of Liam stands against the sun. It highlights his hair, haloing him in golden light. His eyes seem unaccountably warm, and Zayn feels a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Nalé,” he greets, voice dangling between respectful and warm. His conversation with Harry has occupied his mind for much of the day, but he has not reached a firm conclusion. He suspects much of the event which divides them was lost to his understanding, and the prophecy only confuses him more. Still, when faced with Liam’s warm regard, his reaction cannot be helped.

“Zishun,” Liam returns, scattering the children hanging about his legs. He leans down to whisper in one girl’s ear, pointing her towards his horse. The girl giggles and nods eagerly before bolting for the mount. Zayn watches her go but turns his attention easily back to his husband when Liam steps closer.

Liam stares at him but says nothing. Words seem to hover on his tongue, but his brow furrows in irritation when none fall off.

It is an endearing look on him, so Zayn takes pity on him and asks, “ _How did you enjoy your visit to Xa today?”_

He did not mean to ask in such a pointed manner, but some of his earlier bitterness in being left behind emerges. Liam does not miss it. “ _I was not certain you would wish to come.”_

Zayn has to bite back the urge to demand he is asked before a decision is made for him. Looking at Liam, who clearly sought him out immediately upon his return, much of his bitterness fades. Zayn thinks his abandonment this morning was meant as a kindness, however misguided. It is not a point to argue over today.

So much more occupies his mind.

_“You are perhaps right,”_ he admits, bowing his head slightly.

Liam looks of a mind to push, perhaps to demand Zayn’s accountings of the day before, but the young girl who skipped to his horse has appeared at their feet once more. She tugs at his riding leathers, a satchel clasped in her small hands. Liam kneels at once, a bright smile taking over his face so that his eyes crinkle in joy. He takes the satchel and tugs on the end of the girl’s braid, prompting her to giggle. “Gunsuim,” he thanks her.

She nods, eager, and giggles once more when she looks to Zayn before she runs off, following the other kids as they depart. The setting sun calls them to their tents, seeking their evening meal. Zayn thinks to suggest they do the same, but when he turns back to Liam, his husband has the satchel held out in offering.

“ _What is this?”_ he reaches a hesitant hand out, fingers tangling in the rough weave of the satchel but not taking it. He is uncertain of Liam’s intent.

“ _A gift,”_ Liam pushes it further into his hands, offering it. “ _For leaving you behind and for yesterday.”_

Zayn tilts his head curious, but when he wraps a firmer hand around the satchel, the familiar shape of the object within captures the entirety of his attention. His grip curves around the shape of a handle, and his heart pounds when he tears the satchel open. Reaching inside, his breath leaves him in a gasp as he pulls out a whip, which uncoils and gleams metallic in the sunlight.

The satchel falls, empty to the dirt, and the full length of the chain whip is revealed as it uncurls. The tip hits the dirt, the handle held aloft, and Zayn thinks it may be the size of him. It is surprisingly lightweight, burnished steel in his hand, with several links of hand span length connected with welded loops. The wooden handle is polished and fits smoothly into his hand, the tip adorned with square red cloth. The dart is sharp and gleams with malice.

Zayn’s fingers spasm around the handle, body perched on the edge of memorized movement. It has been months since he held a whip in hand, longer still since the whip was a genuine weapon and not a practice one. At his father’s urging, he had left his own modest collection behind, the councilors fearing his skill may be construed as a threat. The feel of it in his hand is like coming back to himself.

When Zayn turns his wide eyes up to Liam, his husband licks his lips and tears his eyes away from the grip Zayn maintains around the handle. They stare at each other, Zayn’s body buzzing with anticipation.

“ _How did you know?”_ he finds himself asking.

“ _You spoke of having a whip, once,”_ Liam answers, turning his gaze to the side and then back quickly.

It is a bashful movement, and Zayn’s head whirls with the implications. He thinks he remembers mentioning whips to Liam, once, after his ill-fated conversation with Aliss, but that was weeks ago and a passing comment quickly forgotten under the weight of the rest of it. For Liam to remember, for Liam to care enough to go into Xa and seek out a whip, means more than Zayn can contemplate.

“ _Why?”_ he demands, because he must. This is no small gift. This is a weapon, and Liam may not know it, yet, but Zayn is a threat with it in his hand. This is the one area where he sees no reason to be humble or modest. He has trained with whips since an early age. An unusual weapon, yes, but well-suited to his small and quick frame and decorative enough that his father saw no reason to object. Liam is arming him, and that is no small thing.

“ _For your dagger,”_ Liam answers, emotions tracing themselves over his face, too quick for Zayn to truly follow. “ _Because no husband of mine will be weaponless again, when scum seeks him out. I will not have you come to harm.”_

Heat tightens low in Zayn’s gut, and when his fist flexes along the handle, he does not miss the answering flash of heat in Liam’s gaze. Without thought, he flicks his wrist, and the tip slithers in a movement too fast to follow before wrapping lightly around Liam’s ankle. Liam jumps, staring at his ankle in shock, and Zayn’s heart pounds. When Liam looks back up at him though, his eyes are dark with yearning. No fear exists on his face, only hunger, only want.

His voice is equally as dark and rough, when he asks, “ _Will you show me?”_

A part of Zayn wishes to. His pride almost demands that he does, to prove his skill in an area where he knows he will gain the respect of the Nakizi, but something overrides that.

Liam remembered that he professed to a skill with whips, once; he deliberately sought out one for a gift; he did so because he fears for Zayn’s safety. He wishes Zayn to protect himself. He wishes his husband to be fierce enough to protect himself.

His regard, his care, is no longer in question.

Harry had told Zayn not to question Liam’s feelings, and here, now, Zayn does not.

Here, now, he pushes it all aside, whip in hand and the regard of his husband completely his.

The something in his gut tightens, and he recognizes lust. He knows what he wants.

He tightens the whip on Liam’s ankle and steps forward. His voice is quiet but firm when he answers, “ _I would show you something else instead.”_

Liam’s lips part around a startled exhale.

“ _I would have you instead,”_ Zayn continues, brash and thrumming. His wants, his needs, his desires, they rule out all else. The whip is mostly forgotten in his hand. All of his attention rests on Liam, whose chest heaves with repressed breaths.

“ _Zayn.”_ He means it as a warning, but Zayn does not wish to be warned off. Liam cares for him, the evidence is in his hand, and he sees no reason to wait. He sees no reason not to demand what he wants.

He wraps fingers around Liam’s wrist, guiding it close to his face. “ _Take me,”_ he mutters, before pressing a kiss to the leather band that marks Liam his.

Liam growls, a fierce smile on his face, and when he bends, he heaves Zayn up easily against his body. The hardness of him rubs against Zayn with the movement, prompting a gasp, and Zayn’s legs wrap around his hips. It is not an easy or logical position, especially as Liam begins walking them through the camp and towards their tent, but Zayn does not care. His fingers lock around either side of Liam’s face, locking their gazes together. Liam’s eyes burn, and their lips snag with every breath. Zayn feels too large for his skin, the whip trailing behind them. He can sense eyes upon them, but he does not care.

Let them see.

When they reach their tent, or what he presumes to be theirs, Liam flings the flaps aside, thrusting them into the shadowed interior. He turns, one hand locked under Zayn to hold him and one hand reaching to close the flaps.

It is a split-second decision, resonating deeply within Zayn’s chest, that prompts him to say, “ _No. Leave them open.”_

Liam stills and looks uncertainly to Zayn. His fingers remain on the flap, ready to close it and hide them from view.

“ _You claimed me once,”_ Zayn says, seeking confirmation of his theory in Liam’s gaze. Guilt flashes, there and gone, and Zayn releases a relieved breath. It is soothing, beyond all else, to finally understand an event that defined them for so long.

But he is done with that.

He drops his whip to the ground.

_“You claimed me once,”_ he repeats, careful to keep any shame from his voice. Now that he understands, fully, he does not care. Now that he has Liam here, hard and wanting and his, he does not care. “ _Let me claim you now.”_

Liam shudders, his shoulders and hands tightening, his face turning blindly into Zayn’s neck, and when his teeth scrape over Zayn’s pulse, they both shudder, together. The tent flap flutters but does not close when Liam releases it, and their lips meet in a clash. Liam licks into his mouth, fierce and firm.

They stumble and fall, lacking grace but uncaring. Liam lands first, and Zayn’s legs fall open around him, so that he straddles the width of Liam. It forces contact along the lines of their cocks, and they both groan. Zayn’s fingers fly to the ties of Liam’s leather vest, tangling with his over the string as they pull and yank it open, baring Liam’s heaving chest. Exposed to air, his nipples pebble, and Zayn thinks of rumors he has heard. When he bends his head, and licks the rosy flesh, Liam arches into him. Zayn grinds down in response, his mind a chaotic mess but his body responding with ease. Everything is instinct, and he wants only to claim, to mark, to own.

They breathe in gasps and moans and whines, and they scramble only partially out of their clothes until their bare lengths brush together. Zayn shudders at the hard press of Liam’s cock and aches for it inside of him, but he cannot stand the thought of taking the time now. He wants… he needs… his fingers fist around both of them, stroking together. It is dry at first but slick soon enough, and Liam’s pained moan urges him on.

He thinks, deliriously, of having Liam in this position, of sliding onto Liam’s cock and riding him as he would a horse. His back arches at the thought, pushing him nearer and nearer the edge. His whole body is grasping, grasping, grasping, so close.

“Liam,” his name is barely a gasp of air heaving from Zayn’s panting lips, but Liam seems to understand. His feet plant, and he thrusts into the next stroke. Zayn chokes on a groan, eyes screwing shut in pleasure. He is blind with want. Liam’s fingers scatter over his body, tracing and tweaking and petting, pulling him closer and closer, and he yearns for release.

When Liam comes, between them, a moan punched from his chest, Zayn cannot hold back anymore. His back snaps with the force of it, and he gasps and gasps, mouth buried in Liam’s neck, pressing sloppy kisses to his skin.

The stillness that falls over them hushes the tent. Zayn cannot hear if anyone lingers outside, and he does not care. Liam’s arms wrap, warm and possessive, around him, and when he tips his head to drag lips along Zayn’s cheekbone, he whispers Zayn’s name in reverence.

It is the only sound they make, tangled together, with Zayn’s ear pressed to Liam’s chest to hear the steady beat of his heart.

And it feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nakizi Words  
> -pinimk - outsider  
> -Yn. Hi ez nk pinimk. Hi ez Nakizi - Yes. He is no outsider. He is Nakizi.  
> -eruba - red  
> \- Ta siva Nakizi - you speak Nakizi  
> -kater aez draza - son of dragons
> 
> People  
> -Verrick - master of coin in Hal
> 
> * reference to dub-con: Zayn and Harry speak again about the tent scene between Zayn and Liam. Zayn goes over the events in his head to some detail and comes to the conclusion that it was not rape. This is his personal feeling on the matter, which he explains. If this is at all triggering, please skip to the next section.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look an update that's several months late! (I'm awful, I know. I'm sorry). 
> 
> I am definitely still working on this fic, just much slower than I originally anticipated (and much slower than I want to be, tbh). Don't give up on me, and I won't give up on this fic, I promise.
> 
> Also sincere apologies for how short this update is. I had to break a chapter in two, and there were honestly no good places to break it up. I also uh, may have not edited it completely? (Can you tell my life is a bit messy right now? Yeah? Yeah). 
> 
> As always thanks for reading, especially if you're coming back to this fic after that long wait!

The day his feet touch solid stone and the yawn of the canyon dip greets him, Zayn pulls his whip from the depths of the bag he hid it away in. The clink of the metal rods unrolling, the sliver of the metal through the air and the dull thud of the dart hitting the stone, send a chill down Zayn’s spine, pebbling his bare skin despite the warm sun. His hand flexes around the solid wood handle, convulsing in pleasurable remembrance, and when he tilts his head up to meet Niall’s intrigued gaze, his smile feels as fierce and quick as the flick of the whip’s tail with a twitch of his wrist. The movement is small, but the sound echoes. Heads turn from where the Nakizi have gathered into groups, readying the camp for the evening that descends quicker with each passing day. The sun is still high enough to catch the gleam of his whip though, and Zayn forces his breath steady when a few curious Nakizi draw closer at the sight.

Curiosity is natural, he reminds himself. Curiosity is good. They are days from Cazikan, and though Zayn’s position among the Nakin aez Draza goes unchallenged, he wishes for steadier ground underneath his feet before he enters the Nakizi home. With the wide gape of the canyons below them, the reality of the next months sets in, and he knows there will be no escape from the Nakizi. So he lets them watch as he familiarizes himself with the weight of the whip in his hand. It is heavier than any he practiced with in Hal, but then he was a prince and bound by ceremony over practicality in his home city. Liam did not bring him a ceremonial dressing though; he brought him a weapon.

Running his hands along the cool metal, Zayn examines the links, feeling the weight of individual sections. He touches each piece reverently, even smoothing his fingers over the vibrant blue cloth of the two flags, one attached just below the dart and one near the handle. The material is just thick enough to produce a clear sound, he thinks; helpful at his experience level.

He folds the metal, end to end, up once more into his hand and holds it for a moment as he plants his feet. Facing the edge of the canyon, he ensures his feet are shoulder-width apart, his head is clear, and that when he extends his arm, forward and just a touch to the right, he will not hit himself. One deep, slow breath in, and he releases the end of the whip, flicking his wrist and extending his elbow in one fluid move. His arm goes immediately into small, constricted circles so the whip never touches the ground. It swings up, quick and vicious, and falls into a tight circle, the whistle of wind caught along the cloths his only indication of where the whip is.

Holding that position, Zayn lets himself feel how the movement of the whip pulls at his body, from his shoulders to his hands to his feet, his entire body attuned to it. Once he ascertains his stability and control, he moves his wrist inward, turning his hand up around the handle and changing the direction so the whip swings first in front of him, and then behind him when he immediately shifts his body and arm at the same moment. His elbow bends with every circle behind him, and Zayn lets himself settle into a rhythm before, gently, he lets the dart hit the stone. The sound of metal striking rock is immensely satisfying, thumping along like a heartbeat at Zayn’s feet, announcing his presence to the canyons.

He goes through several movements, flinging the whip around his body with varying speeds, his progress slower than he might have preferred in Hal when he trained regularly but satisfying nonetheless. When he finally allows the whip to come to a stop, caught under his arm and wrapped tidily around his shoulder until he holds the entire length of it between his arm and body, his chest is heaving, and he can feel the grin helplessly spreading his mouth wide. His body buzzes with delight, and the warm metal pressed against him is a balm to any misplaced ragged edges he may still harbor.

Thudding along the ground snatches his attention, and he glances up to see the group of Nakizi who stopped to watch paying him tribute. The flush he feels only deepens when he spots not only his vulkezi and Niall happily stomping their feet but Liam as well. His husband’s grin is reckless, his expression clear and honest as he catches Zayn’s eyes. He moves forward as his people continue to stomp, expressing their admiration with the occasional shout undoubtedly started by Niall, and when Liam reaches him, he cups Zayn’s face in one hand, pressing his other to the leather cuff around Zayn’s wrist.

“Zayn,” his voice is breathy, edging into the deep rumble Zayn recognizes from nights in their tent. He rattles off a string of Nakizi too fast for Zayn to follow, his fingers reverently slipping over the metal of the whip before coming back to rest along Zayn’s cuff. He presses their foreheads together when Zayn fails to respond, grinning fiercely still. Zayn’s blush deepens at the blatant display, and he almost misses the whispered word Liam gifts him next. “E ez zapuzi.”

He recognizes the word from Harry’s whisperings to the dragons on days where Zayn had lingered amongst them, but he had never expected to hear Liam proclaiming his pride for Zayn aloud. It sends a warmth rushing through him unparalleled by anything he has yet felt. He presses into Liam’s hands, whispering his thanks between them and hoping to convey the magnitude of his feelings.

The moment is of course broken a moment later by Niall’s loud laughter as he approaches them. “Zayn, my friend, I feel misled.”

Zayn pulls back reluctantly, a thrill chasing through him when Liam does not leave his side, fingers still dragging along his leather wedding cuff. The touch feels more intimate than if Liam were touching his skin, and Zayn fights to focus on Niall. “Misled?” he repeats when he comprehends. “Why? By what?”

Niall’s grin is fighting his determination to keep a straight face and winning. “A city prince they told me,” he mocks, voice tripping through amusement to teasing. “He will need a vulkezi to protect him, an entire group to keep him safe, yet here you are wielding a weapon none of them could hope to.”

A startled laugh leaves Zayn’s throat, and he’s aware of Liam’s eyes flicking between him and Niall. He switches to Nakizi in deference when he answers, “ _No one thought to ask what I could do.”_

Niall ducks his head in joking acquiescence. _“Of course. Or perhaps your skill is just for show.”_

Liam makes an affronted noise before Zayn can, but Niall’s grin only widens.

 Zayn narrows his eyes. “ _Perhaps you require a demonstration.”_ He flicks his wrist so the whip shifts against him, as though unraveling, and feels gratified when Niall tracks the motion.

Niall’s grin does not falter though when he replies, “ _Perhaps, though I believe some others are more eager to spar with you.”_ He jerks his chin over his shoulder to Zayn’s vulkezi, who stare back unashamedly listening. Zayn’s lips twitch when he reads their expressions, which do indeed appear eager.

 “ _Is Niall right?”_ he raises his voice to them. “ _Would you like to spar?”_

Ani and Ezra immediately step forward, hands falling to their swords. They bow their heads.

Niall turns back to Zayn, grinning outright now. _“So? Will the City prince prove his skill?”_

Every part of Zayn wishes to say yes without hesitation, his blood calling for a practical, true demonstration of his skill, but he holds back and forces himself to think. He weighs how comfortable he feels with this whip against his knowledge of his guards’ skill and comes up in his favor, he believes. Still, there is one other thing he ought to consider. He turns to Liam with questioning eyes.

“Liam?”

Liam’s brown eyes, warm in the fading light, track over his face, as though searching for an answer. Zayn tries to give him whatever answer he seeks, and perhaps he succeeds. Liam’s grin stretches slow and smug across his face, and he steps back from Zayn with only a swipe of his thumb over Zayn’s cheek. “ _Fight,”_ he bows his head, giving permission, and then to just Zayn, “ _win.”_

 It feels like a challenge, and Zayn aches to rise to it. As though called to arms, he feels himself switch mindsets, falling easily into the clear-headed space for sparring. Liam and Niall both back off, Ani and Ezra stepping forward and facing off. Their swords slide from their sides, gripped in sure hands as they square off with Zayn, who leaves his whip coiled for now.

They evaluate each other, and Zayn tries to remember everything he can about their fighting styles. He has an advantage here, since neither have any true knowledge of his own style, and he plans to press it.

“ _Who first?”_ Niall calls.

Zayn is quick to shake his head though, eyes seeking Liam when he answers, “ _Both.”_

Liam’s eyes darken, and he tilts his head. “Zayn?”

" _Both,”_ Zayn repeats, firm. Liam nods without further comment, and Zayn preens under his husband’s willingness to trust him on this.

Ani and Ezra glance to each other and then back to Zayn, neither stepping forward. He can understand their hesitation, but he has no patience for it.

 “ _Well?”_ he demands and finally lets the whip loosen from its tight coil. He does not release it completely yet. “ _Come on.”_

Ani might be wise enough to ignore a taunt, but Ezra, Zayn knows, always falls for the teasing of his sparring partners. He does now, stepping closer and raising his sword. His approach is slow, perhaps to give him time to think, but it works in Zayn’s favor. Ezra’s next step is easy to predict, and Zayn flings his whip out with deadly accuracy to tangle quickly around his ankle. He pulls only tight enough to yank and then uses his shoulders to heave Ezra off balance. The satisfying thump of Ezra hitting the stone underneath him and the whoosh of the air leaving his chest resounds in sudden silence.

Zayn might normally revel in such a blatant show, but Ani, truly wise, chooses this moment to spring forward, perhaps hoping to catch him off guard. Zayn trained with multiple men though, and he knows these tactics. He flicks his whip up, careful to fling the tip in her face without catching her on the dart. The move serves its purpose, shocking Ani into a stumbling stop long enough to allow Zayn to regain controlled movement of his whip which he circles around his front and back to serve as a shield. She glares at him, and Zayn smiles back, pleased with himself.

Ani waits for Ezra to regain his feet before she starts forward once more, and Zayn recognizes the determination on their faces. They will not hurt him, of course, but they are more serious this time. He is glad.

They move in counterpoint, working together as they should, and Zayn backs away to ensure neither make it behind him. He knows how to defend on two-fronts, but he would rather not for this simple sparring match. He lets them approach, because he must, but the moment he thinks his whip will reach, he strikes. A simple turn of his arm sends the whip forward instead of in the same circle, and the tip hits the center of Ani’s sword, knocking it from her hand. Ezra has barely noticed before his sword, too, falls from his hand.

A laugh sounds from the crowd, and Zayn is pleased to recognize it as Liam’s. His grin, this time, is perhaps a touch too smug, but he cannot help it when he sees the blatant frustration on Ani and Ezra’s faces. When they bend to pick their swords up, they meet eyes, and Zayn knows his vulkezi well enough to recognize the unspoken conversation between them.

When they advance this time, they are a more united front, and they are fast. Zayn stumbles back, careful to keep his footing, and forces himself to react without predicting their movements. His swings are defensive in nature, close to his body and quick so they block every parry. He feels metal connect to metal three times before Ani and Ezra back off once more. They advance again, quick to deduce that speed is to their advantage, but speed is Zayn’s domain too with the whip.

They battle, the same thrusts met with the same blocks over and over, as they fight to learn and adapt quick enough to earn the edge over their opponents. Ani and Ezra are trained though, and as the fight continues, this becomes more apparent. Zayn tires. He can feel it in the speed of his whip as he blocks, and he knows if he wishes to win he needs to be on the attack once more.

The idea hits him as he blocks a particularly hard thrust from Ezra, the sharp edge of his sword aimed for Zayn’s side, not to stab but to tap, and it barely misses the mark. It is a risky plan unfolding in his mind, but one with enough surprise on his side that Zayn feels confident in it.

His execution is sloppy, but Zayn cares little about that when, after he drops to one knee and slides himself between them, he stands and sees the shock on Ani and Ezra’s faces. He has placed himself between them, Ani at his front and Ezra at his back, and it is clear that the move was not expected. He sees the triumph on Ani’s face and prays that the victory she undoubtedly predicts now will not be her own.

With the handful of moments he has before they react, Zayn changes the motion of his arm, tucking his elbow in hard on his upswing so the whip moves at a diagonal. It catches him hard but exactly where he means it to, wrapping over his shoulder and around his side, allowing him to change the direction and momentum. It flips out, faster than before, and catches Ani’s hand with a satisfying smack. Her sword flies from her hand, and before it hits the stone, Zayn has spun with the whip and flung it forward once more to repeat the move with an astonished Ezra. Two swords hit the rock, and Zayn spins his whip out to catch behind Ezra’s knee with more care to knock him over. Ani falls in the next moment, and then Zayn stands alone at the edge of the canyons, two guards and two swords at his feet with the dust from his unexpected slide only just beginning to clear.

The silence does not last as long this time, broken almost immediately by Niall’s riotous peals of laughter. Zayn’s lips twitch as he watches the blonde double over, clutching his gut. Zayn’s other vulkezi appear torn between joining Niall in laughter and sending pitying looks to their fellows. Liam, though, captures Zayn’s attention wholly. His gaze is burning, the pride he admitted earlier fully ablaze in his expression, his eyes swallowed in dark wanting.

There is no mistaking his desire, and Zayn fights not to submit to it, to fall to his knees at Liam’s feet and agree to whatever his husband clearly wants. The urge is overpowered by the answering pride he feels in himself, bolstered by Liam, which swells hot and consuming over his chest. He breathes deep and even, controlling his laboring body and tilting his chin up high.

Liam’s eyes are the ones that fall in demure acknowledgement this time, and Zayn feels powerful. 

* * *

 

The camp that night feels joyful, and Zayn doubts it has as much to do with his showing as with their proximity to the home city. Still, he rejoices in the attention his skill has earned him, allowing the group who witnessed the sparring match to congratulate him, touch his whip, give him praise if they wish. His vulkezi mutter amongst themselves about their own attempts, or re-attempts in Ezra’s case, but they mean it in good humor. Niall, in his typical way, boasts loudly for all and any to hear of Zayn’s skill, and Zayn thinks he may be called on once more for a demonstration, perhaps many times even, if Niall’s boasting does not cease.

All of this he weathers with gentle humor as the evening turns to night, never drifting far from Liam’s side. The tension of their earlier connection does not fade but lingers between them, and Zayn thrums with it. When night truly falls and dinner is done but people yet linger near the fires, Zayn places one hand on Liam’s wrist, careful to touch both skin and leather. Their eyes meet, and Zayn needs no words. He draws Liam away and feels that same power rushing through him, this time with a difference cause.

When they enter their tent, he lays himself back, thighs spread and unashamed of his nudity. Oils are within reach, and Zayn uses his own fingers to ready himself, Liam’s dark eyes tracking his every motion. He does not wait to disrobe, unlacing his breaches and stroking himself to full hardness. When he kneels forward, one hand on the ground and the other on Zayn’s knee, it is Zayn who pulls him in with firm legs locked around his waist. Liam takes him hard and fast on their furs, his lips pressed to Zayn’s neck the entire time as he buries himself over and over. Zayn twists his fingers in Liam’s long braids and closes his eyes, letting himself feel and feel and feel.

They remain twisted together once they finish, Zayn’s hands still buried in Liam’s hair, Liam’s hands steadying presences on his ribs, and with the Nakin settling into the night around them, Zayn feels settled like he has not quite managed before. 

* * *

 

The descent into the canyons is steep, a narrow path crisscrossing down the side of the cliff face. Zayn’s hands clench and unclench as his horse strides calmly downward, at ease in a way that Zayn cannot be. The trail is rough-cut, and if rumor can be believed, down by the tired hands of slaves an eon ago when the Nakizi first sought refuge closer to Kiza. At the thought, Zayn’s eyes dart to Niall, riding demurely at his side.

“Something on my face?”

The words startle Zayn, whose eyes immediately dart to the edge of the path when his body jolts, as though he might startle his horse over the edge. It is a ridiculous fear, made more ridiculous by the ease of the Nakizi surrounding him, but fear often bests logic in brute fights. “What?” he manages to eke out when his seat feels certain once more.

Niall quirks his lips, but his blue eyes are serious, evaluating. “You keep gazing at my face. If I did not know your infatuation with your husband, which you certainly proved last night, I would think you admired me.”

Though teasing, his words cause a furious blush to spread over Zayn’s cheeks. “I do not know what you mean.”

Niall’s grin widens. “Oh so it was the dragons I heard groaning last night, was it? Curious noises for them, more like a whine than –”

“Yes, alright,” Zayn cuts him off furiously, glancing around to spot any eavesdroppers. Ezra’s eyes are suspiciously fixed on the sky, and Zayn sighs. Somedays he swears he misses the etiquette of court.

Niall kicks at Zayn’s horse, playful, and Zayn manages to control his instinctive flinch.

Moments pass in companionable silence, but Zayn is not truly surprised when Niall presses, “So what is it then?”

He glances at his companion and shakes his head. Niall’s good moods rarely fail, but Zayn thinks they would if he were to speak his mind now. “It is on a topic you wish to not speak about,” he manages when Niall clearly waits.

Just as he thought though, Niall’s grin immediately falls, and his body tenses. Even his reaction though, Zayn cannot help but observe in a new light. He hardens, like stone, every trace of his easygoing foolishness vanishing.

“The slave markets then,” Niall intones blankly.

Zayn winces, glaring at his fingers. He thinks he owes Niall honesty, now that he has brought the subject up. “Not the markets, really, but your place in them, once.”

Niall’s silences are always more telling than his words, and this one speaks of anger.

“Sorry,” Zayn mutters eventually. “I know you do not wish to remember –”

Niall snorts, vicious and inelegant. It startles Zayn into glancing up at him. Derision and anger fight for dominance over his fair features. “There is no forgetting, not that, not ever.”

“Sorry,” Zayn repeats, guilt twisting like serpents in his gut. “You do not have to speak of it, if it is hard for you.”

“It is not for my sake that I hold my silence but everyone else’s,” Niall scoffs. “What do you expect to hear from me, Zayn, a happy tale?”

Zayn blanches. “No, I –”

“You do, though,” Niall cuts him off, blue eyes hard as gems. “Perhaps not a happy tale of a happy childhood, but certainly a tragic tale of starvation and fighting, brutal and bloody. Or perhaps a triumphant tale where I withhold all the gory details. Would it be better if I spoke of the illegal bets on child fights where if one was the victor they saw a fraction of that coin or if I spoke of the coarseness of whorehouse beds on one’s back? Tell me which tale you would prefer and I can spin it for you, as gruesome or as pretty as you like.”

Zayn swallows drily, his tongue thick and uncomfortable in his mouth. He can picture what Niall speaks of, undoubtedly his intent. The images of a ring of men shouting and throwing coin to the dirt where children fight like dogs, or, worse, the images of children leading men into poorly blocked off rooms with rough mattresses haunt him. He tries to imagine Niall there, in either scenario, but he cannot. He does not want to. Niall is his friend, a man who has welcomed Zayn from his first steps among the Nakizi, and he does not wish to hear of his suffering suddenly, not for a single moment.

Whatever his face shows, it softens Niall’s expression, and his final words on the subject are equally as soft, though no less chastising for it, “Life is not some pretty tale, Zayn. You need to stop hoping it will be.”

* * *

Small caves and crevices exist along the pathway leading into the canyons, and as evening draws firmly around the Nakin, people begin to filer into them. Zayn watches, curious at the well-practiced movements of it and wonders at who decides when and where they will all go, but he does not ask. By the time Liam pulls alongside him and nudges them into a fairly large cave, Zayn’s eyelids droop with exhaustion. Their tent is barely put up before he crawls into the furs. He drops into sleep, and he dreams.

* * *

 

He stands at the entrance to the great hall in Hal’s castle, familiar to him, even as torches flicker and obscure the details with shadow. The room stretches out before him, the dais at the end with a single throne standing upon it, and upon the throne Liam sits, back straight and hands clamped to the armrests. The wrongness of his posture flickers over Zayn’s mind, disappearing between his fingers like smoke before he can grasp the thoughts fully.

“The High Seat of Kiza,” someone whispers beside him. Zayn spins on a gasp, but no one is there. The hall echoes, mockingly empty. Liam resides. A king without subjects, Zayn thinks.

When he turns back, a crown adorns Liam’s head, but it looks wrong. It shines like the City Kings’ crowns, looking gaudy upon Liam’s braids and incongruous with his leathers. Hal is not Liam’s place, this castle not his domain. Zayn grew up here, not Liam.

“You by his side,” the whisper comes again. “You by his side, you by his side, you by his side.”

As it repeats, Zayn steps forward, prompted onward. He stumbles over the hall floors, cobblestone uneven under his feet, as though he no longer remembers how to walk upon anything but dirt. The hall shifts, but the voice continues, urging him to move towards Liam.

It takes him an age to reach the steps leading up to the throne, to Liam, and as he looks upward, they lengthen. Liam’s face is set, so far removed above Zayn, and Zayn aches. The crown bites into Liam’s head, and his fingers curl into the wooden armrests like he restrains himself.

I can help, Zayn thinks. Let me help him.

“True peace will be known,” echoes around him, loud and harsh in comparison to the earlier whisper, but Zayn takes it for permission.

He scrambles up the stairs, ungraceful and careless of it. He must reach Liam. Liam needs him. The throne is wrong; it is not Liam’s throne, not his crown, not his people. Zayn needs to help him; Zayn needs to… Zayn needs to take the throne.

The thought is startling, but not as much as the sudden dragon’s roar that echoes through the room. Zayn’s hands clap to his ears, the entire ground shaking beneath his feet. The stone steps crack, sudden and violent, and Zayn nearly pitches backward. When he glances back up, Liam is gone, and the throne is split in two.

“Liam!” Zayn’s voice echoes through the ruin of the great hall, desperate. He spins and sees nothing but desolation around him, his city reduced to rubble.

“Together,” the voice whispers in his ear, and this time, when he spins to catch it, he does tumble backward, arms reaching out and a startled gasp caught in his throat. 

* * *

 

Zayn wakes, eyes snapping open while his body tenses as though bracing for the imaginary fall. Firelight dances over the walls of their cave, and Liam’s face is peaceful, close to his own. The firelight catches in the golden pieces interwoven in his braids, done by Zayn’s hand some days ago for no real purpose. He reaches shaking fingers out and touches one such piece, tracing over it and brushing against Liam’s curling hair. He had thought the gold a nice nod to Liam’s position, and he cannot help but think of the crown from his dream, too tight and digging into Liam’s skin. He shudders. No, that crown was wrong for Liam, but this, these gold pieces woven into his warrior’s braids, this seems right.

He drifts off once more with Liam’s braids tangled in his fingers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So. It’s been like several months. And an additional few weeks since I promised I would post a chapter. Like… life man. It just keeps happening. So no lengthy explanation or anything, but I really hope everyone who might still be reading this fic will enjoy this update! And a very, very sincere thank you to everyone who has read, continues to read, or will read this fic. 
> 
> Sidenote: I desperately need a good soundtrack for writing this fic, so any suggestions would be welcome, either individual songs or albums! (I’ve mostly just been listening to Lorde on repeat).

The morning they are to enter Cazikan, the entire Nakin awakens with a buzz, like an angry hornet’s nest, and Zayn’s skin itches like those same hornets crawl over it. He is at once excited and terrified, and he sits uneasily in his saddle because of it. If Niall notices, and he must for he is Niall, he does not comment. Even his normally sharp and darting blue eyes are trained forever over the trail’s edge today, stuck to the canyon floor and slightly ahead, waiting for that first elusive glint of the great Nakizi city.

In the Cities, only rumors exist about what Cazikan resembles, only the briefest descriptions mumbled between curious but quiet citizens. When he was young, Zayn pictured a City like Hal but instead of their neat, tidy streets and buildings, a sprawling maze, hewn directly from rock. Now, he thinks it might look something like their Nakin, only larger, a sprawling tent city.

The first moment Zayn’s eyes catch sight of the Cazikan, jutting up abruptly from the canyon floor, he remembers all at once the literal translation of the name. Cazikan, the Canyon City, and so it is.

Cazikan rises from the cave floor abruptly, there with the suddenness of a summer storm along the coast, and equally as impressive, though it bears little resemblance to a storm. No, as the blurred shapes resolve themselves, Zayn realizes that this city could stand a millennium, that it appears as though it already has stood the test of time. It is indeed hewn from the rock, but it is so much more.

The canyon floor, for days simply a suggested blur of tan, resolves itself into smoothed waves of rock that rise and fall like Kiza once breathed as it hardened. The trail, a switchback of steep turns, has abruptly taken them around one last turn, and Zayn thinks it has led them to the heart of hearts of this place, for a strange but breathtaking array of rock formations shoots into the sky. The spires of rock remind him of fingers, plunging through the hard surface of Kiza and grasping at the sky, which is suddenly wide and open once more. For days, Zayn has been looking at slivers of it as the canyon surrounded them, but all at once and in this place, there is a large swath of it.

A breathless laugh is knocked from Zayn’s chest as the dragons, all three of them, Ossium, Fraeyn, and Xohen, swoop and circle above, caught in a joyous dance with each other as though they too recognize home. And the city certainly recognizes them. They are yards and yards away, yet Zayn hears with startling clarity the sudden wave of sound that indicates the dragons, at least, have been spotted by the sprawling city below.

And what a city it is. The span of it is enormous, not as large as Hal but not far behind. Despite their still elevated vantage, Zayn cannot see the entirety of it, for the city sprawls between the rock formations, a part of the canyon in a way the other Cities never manage. His eyes dance over the tan of the rock itself, to the slightly darker forms of what must be buildings, all low and sprawling and natural somehow. Space exists in great ribbons of color between the buildings, and Zayn is shocked to see the bright green of fields and grass. He stares until his gaze is caught yet again, this time by what he had initially taken for a great rise of rock, an inhalation of Kiza caught in time, but that resolves itself into a building. Rounded, like a dome, it lords above the rest of the city, a focal point that everything branches outward from, and a ring, untouched by anything, exists around it.

“Xamunakin,” Zayn breathes, certain of his judgement.

“Yes,” Niall’s voice betrays his smile before Zayn looks. When he does, he sees a brightness in Niall’s eyes that is unmistakable. “Welcome home, Zayn. _Sashuin a Cazikan, sashuin a Xamunakin.”_

Welcome to the canyon city, Zayn thinks. Welcome to home of the Nakin. 

* * *

 

The trail gradually flattens out until it runs without seam into the floor of the canyon. There, Zayn sees a curious sight that he does not understand at first. He stares as the Nakin appears to spread outward rather than continue forward, wagons moving to the side as children pour from them, happy and laughing and joyous. They linger though, at the edges of the canyon floor, as though waiting for something, and the Nakizi on horseback wait too.

It is not until Zayn spots Liam, astride his impatiently stamping horse and gleaming golden and happy in the sun, that Zayn thinks he might understand. His heart pounds within his chest, and though he does not remember giving the command, his horse suddenly quickens her pace. Niall laughs quietly beside him, his guard undoubtedly equally as amused, but Zayn has eyes for no one but Liam. As they draw nearer, it becomes abundantly clear that Liam waits for Zayn, his eyes just as firmly affixed as Zayn’s own are, caught and held by each other.

The moment Zayn’s horse touches her hooves to the flat of the land, a smile splits Liam’s face, and it is almost in complete unison that the Nakizi open their mouths and release a wild howl to the air. Liam’s head tips back, long braids swinging freely and glinting with the gold Zayn’s fingers had so carefully woven in, and his strong shoulders move with the scream of joy he releases. His eyes never leave Zayn’s, so Zayn sees the exact moment Liam’s fingers tighten on the reigns, and he knows what comes next.

Liam takes off like a shot, his Nakin unfolding around him in practiced formation, and Zayn is hardly a moment behind him. As one, the Nakizi run over the canyon floor, and Zayn finds his place on instinct, no one blocking his way to following just behind Liam’s shoulder. Liam tilts a fierce, proud smile towards him, a flash of teeth against the canyon, and he releases his wild shout once more. The shout echoes over the river of Nakizi, from mouth to mouth to mouth, unified as one.

They race, giving the horses their heads, an entire tribe of fearless warriors and their families, swarming the rough rocky ground of their homeland and filling the cavernous canyon with the heartbeat drum of hundreds of hooves. It raises an almighty war call, heralding their arrival as though they conquer the very land, and Zayn can imagine Kiza falling to these fierce people, these proud people.

When his vulkezi, forever behind him, tilt their heads back to release another joyous shout to the sky, Zayn joins them. His voice cuts clear through, loud and unrestrained. Free, he is free, freer than he has ever been. Freer than he will ever be.

It lasts for ages and is over far too quickly, the ground swallowed beneath the triumphant charge of the Nakin as it returns home. Cazikan rises before them, the canyon itself welcoming them into its embrace. No formal wall greets them, no gate to enter through, but the buildings surround them with the suddenness of a hug, and the horses slow their pace on instinct.

The Nakin aez Draza floods the paths of Cazikan, blood through the veins of the home city, and the body comes to life to greet them. Nakizi move out of the way, shouting wordless greetings as others linger in doorways and empty windows, the whispered word, draza, following in their wake.

Zayn is torn between the competing desires to take it all in and to duck his head. He wants to see, to observe these other Nakizi as they are, but he equally wants to hide his own foreignness. His fingers tighten in his reins to keep from playing at the hems of his new leathers, from prodding at his sun-darkened skin, from toying with his unbraided hair. All these differences that mark him as other, differences he has nearly forgotten among the Nakin, his Nakin. They feel all too present now, and Zayn knows he is not wrong when his eyes catch first a woman in a doorway, her own eyes wide, and then next a man, and another man and –

Niall’s horse presses gently into him, briefly trapping their legs between their horses, and Zayn’s eyes do fall then.

“They know what I am,” Zayn mutters.

It is not a question, but Niall hums, considering his answer. Zayn dreads the response, but before Niall speaks, Zayn catches Liam’s eye.

Liam sits tall and splendid on his horse, a stark image of his Nakizi heritage, the true warrior leader he is. Every inch a Nalé, he is at once bold and relaxed, certain of himself and proud. His eyes, brown and happy, unashamedly rake Zayn’s body and darken. Zayn finds himself straightening under the look, body heating with a familiar warmth, his very skin calling to Liam’s skin, their hearts to each other. A fierce pride takes over Zayn’s fear, swallowing it whole and consuming it, because this man is his husband. This Nalé, leader of his people, warrior of a tribe, conqueror of his enemies, who bears the markings of his prowess in his braids and his ink and his body, is his.

And he is Liam’s.

Niall hums once more, the edge of a laugh lingering there. “So let them know _who_ you are.”

Zayn does. With a sure hand he guides his horse closer to Liam’s, not allowing hesitation to show in any movement, because although he may not be sure of his place here, he is certain of his welcome at least. He pulls alongside Liam, his horse barely behind Liam’s own, a position of honor. It was not intentional, but he chose the side on which Louis rides, which he realizes only when his leg brushes alongside the flank of Louis’s horse. For a nerve wrenching moment, Zayn fears that Louis will not allow this, that he will make a scene. However, Louis looks at him for only a moment, mouth tight but not unhappy, before he gracefully guides his horse a step behind, and then Zayn is there, among Liam’s vulkeyun.

The shocked murmurs of the other Nakizi they pass swell and then linger, more eyes affixed to them than before, but Zayn pays them little mind. The entire Nakin surrounds them, a close informal formation with a nonetheless clear hierarchy, and Zayn resides in the middle of it, his own vulkezi trailing in the v-shape of Liam’s vulkeyun.

They travel to the heart of the city, to the great dome of the Xamunakin, for the formal greeting, and Zayn’s place among the Nakin, his Nakin, is set.

Zayn meets Liam’s eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and with slow deliberate movements, he places one hand over the other on his saddle’s pommel. The sun gleams, bright, against the polished leather of his wedding band, an unmistakable sight.

Liam’s smile tips from proud to triumphant, and when he turns his gaze forward once more, Zayn does not think he imagines the stronger set to Liam’s shoulders, the added height to his countenance.

In this manner, they ride further into the heart of Cazikan, further into their home.

* * *

The formal greeting between the Nalés passes without much incident, save Zayn’s own, small embarrassment at his reaction to being parted from Liam.

While in the home city, the Nalé bed within the dome of the Xamunakin, where a fire burns every hour of every day that any Nakizi are present within the canyon walls. Zayn knew of this tradition, remembers clearly when Niall informed him of it while they travelled here, but the reality did not set in until after the formal greeting had passed, when Zayn had been expected to depart his husband’s side. It will be the first time in many months that he sleeps without Liam in his bed, and he finds himself unaccountably unhappy. His cheeks redden, even now, to think of his obvious hesitation when his vulkezi had nudged him away from Liam, after the greeting had passed.

The greeting, a necessary token of respect for not only Cazikan itself, but an acknowledgement of the equal ranking from one Nalé to another, had passed without incident. It involved very little beyond requiring any Nakin to present itself before the Xamunakin and the residing Nalés immediately upon entering the city and the acceptance of those Nalés. Each residing Nalé bowed their head to the entering Nalé, and though Zayn’s stomach had twisted, each had bowed easily to Liam today. Sitting astride his horse, Liam’s face had betrayed no nerves, his easy acceptance of their acknowledgement a given thing.

Zayn had dismounted once it became clear that the rest of his Nakin was doing the same, but he had been unable to keep his curious gaze from darting over each of the other Nalé present. During one of his last lessons in Hal, Zayn’s tutors had informed him that currently only four Nalé controlled Nakins, including Liam, and if that information was correct, then all of the other Nalé had been present today. He is ignorant of all of their names, a blatant oversight that he will soon ask Niall to correct, but he remembers clearly their appearances in front of the Xamunakin.

Two of the others had been men similar in stature to Liam, broad shoulders and lengthy braided hair, though Zayn had noted quickly that neither had braids as long as Liam’s own. One of those men had been Nalé Dremon, ruler of the Nakin aez Eruba, and Zayn had avoided his knowing gaze. The third had been a woman, equally as tall but willowy, with her own braids pulled back from her face and more killing marks than any Nakizi Zayn had ever seen. All three had stared at Zayn with faces clearly used to games of deception, for he had not been able to read a single thought they might have.

Until his vulkezi had nudged him away from Liam, that is. Zayn’s hesitance was blatant, the sudden intense desire to remain by his husband’s side all encompassing. He did not wish to be parted, to an almost childlike degree, which all must have picked up on. Liam certainly had, his strong presence engulfing Zayn as he picked up his hand and pressed first a kiss to the tender skin there and then another to the leather of his wedding band. He had offered no words, but the brightness of his eyes and the simplicity of his actions soothed Zayn. It was as Zayn was turning to depart that he caught the derision on another Nalé’s face, the man’s lip upturned in a cruel smile, as though he was soon to laugh.

Zayn burns still, hours later, with the remembrance of that expression, of his husband offering him comfort in a moment of childish weakness. He burns for his own humiliation, but also with a timid fear for Liam. He does not wish to make his husband appear weak, and he cannot pull his mind away from the knowledge that Liam is there, in that building with only the other Nalé, not even his vulkeyun at his side.

_“Does your bedding displease you, husband of my son?”_

An aging Nakizi woman addresses him, and Zayn thinks, with some humor, that at least one person had found his moment of weakness endearing. This woman had been there, on the edges of their gathering, and she had appeared at his side as soon as Liam had disappeared within the Xamunakin. Kindness shined in her brown eyes then, and it does now. Zayn is relieved, for this woman is Liam’s mother. She is both everything and nothing like he would have expected, had he known to expect her. Warm brown eyes shine from her weathered, tanned skin, and for that similarity to his husband alone, Zayn would find himself fond of her. Her pleasant demeanor and own acceptance of him only furthers his feelings of amity.

“Nk,” Zayn is quick to shake his head, not wishing to insult one of what may be the few friends he finds here. “ _It is more than enough, leader-mother.”_

The honorific pleases her, judging by the slight uptick at the corner of her mouth, and Zayn’s reminds himself to thank Niall profusely for explaining the title of wives of deceased Nalés. Lé’mzi feels more awkward on his tongue than most Nakizi words have for some time, but he finds the effort worth it.

It is in her home tonight that Zayn resides, and he soothes himself with the knowledge that he will be close a part of Liam, if he cannot be close to his husband.

 “ _Then let us leave. You have not yet seen Cazikan, not truly.”_

Zayn acquiesces with ease, excitement burning for the first time in his gut since his horse rode into the canyon city. Too many childhood evenings wasted daydreaming about the home of the Nakizi have built the city into a wondrous adventure, and he wishes to see it. Yet it is not only to fulfill some childhood dream that he steps from this home and into the waiting city. As his fingers find a rough carving at the entrance, a handful of scratch marks he had spotted upon seeing the building, he acknowledges that this city has become, and will hopefully be, so much more. His fingers trace the rough shape of a dragon, head arched proudly back in what is surely a terrific roar, and he smiles.

 “Yn,” he directs to Liam’s mother. “ _Please show me the city._ Stenza a nenem kan.” 

* * *

 

Days pass, flowing from one to another with the same speed that the wind whips through the canyon walls, until Zayn loses track of the passage of time. The Nakizi city, the Nakizi people, the Nakizi life, it consumes him, and he rejoices in his consumption. He has never known life like this. He has never known freedom like this.

Niall has taken to calling him likize, free one, with a smile that he swears does not rival Zayn’s own. The first time the word came bubbling out of his laughing mouth, Zayn had found himself swept away in the dips and clicks of the word, falling easily around his shoulders and then from his tongue. Ensconced in Niall’s home that evening, Zayn had drunk the fragrant wines another Nakin had returned with and felt at home.

The feeling follows him through the city streets as he visits the trading corridors, with tents not dissimilar to the ones they had set up on their route here, through the main circle, with the presiding Xamunakin above every other building, through the animal pens, with their symbolic fences rather than practical ones, because the Nakizi acknowledge the futility of trying to trap something so boundless as an animal’s spirit. With everything he discovers within this canyon city, he finds another thing he loves, but for everything he discovers, he finds what he has always found, too.

Distrustful eyes follow him as he wanders, and he is never without at least one of his vulkezi or Louis, Harry, or Niall. The other Nakizi treat him with such a wide array of reactions, he is quick to understand that they have no idea what to make of him. In particular, he has observed the confusion of Nakizi from the other Nakins when they witness the way his own tribe treats him, for Zayn has finally won his people over.

If any of his own Nakin had been doubting his worth before entering Cazikan, that doubt has washed away in the shade of the canyon walls. Zayn is not sure what has brought on his wholehearted embracement by the people of his husband, his people, but he does not question their ready acceptance, not when he has worked so hard to earn it.

One thing he does question, though only within the privacy of his own mind, is the treatment of Liam here.

Zayn has grown used to the outright devotion of the Nakin aez Draza to their Nalé. Aside from the single man who challenged Liam on their way here, not one of Liam’s people has ever directly disrespected him. It is a phenomenon that the City Kings would kill to replicate, but one which they could only ever fail to. The devotion Liam inspires can never be lusted after; it can only be achieved by those pure of heart and intention. If Zayn had found his own devotion to Liam sudden and consuming, he can only imagine the Nakizi feel the same.

For every Nakizi that casts a distrustful look towards Zayn, ten more are tilting their heads to Liam as he passes. If Zayn had never watched another Nalé walk among the streets of Cazikan, he might think this behavior normal, for it is the same nod that Liam receives from his own people. Yet Zayn had watched the female Nalé walk through the trading corridors one day, and though the Nakizi had clearly respected her, only those from her own Nakin had paused their actions to stand still and intentionally tilt their chins down and their heads to the left. None of the other Nakizi had acknowledged her in the way Zayn had come to expect Liam to be acknowledged.

It was not the only thing Zayn had noticed either. Nakizi sought Liam out, eager to speak with him, eager to acknowledge him, eager to grasp his hand. Even those not so blatant in their interest were often watching Liam from the corners of their eyes. If Zayn had not noticed the first thing, he does not think he would catch every other gesture, but he did, so he does.

He does not understand it, though.

He wishes to, but he has not yet found the courage to ask. He has admittedly had ample opportunity, for though he feared he would never see his husband here, that is not the case. Liam seeks him out every day, even if their actual time together lasts no longer than the span of a single conversation. It is a curious mix of everything Zayn both longs for and fears, to have Liam so blatantly attentive to him. He wishes for it of course, for his own selfish reasons, but he is not ignorant of the looks they receive when together. Perhaps his own Nakin has truly accepted him, but such is not the case for the other Nakins.

Today, Liam holds a sugared fruit up to Zayn’s lips in the trading corridor, the sweet plucked from the table of another Nakin. Zayn obligingly leans in, his lips brushing Liam’s fingers as he accepts the taste, and most of himself is focused on the happy glow of pride wrapped around Liam. The rest of him is too aware of the dark eyes of the Nakizi who brought the fruit here.

Today, he allows Liam to show him off, to grab his wrist, to lead him around the canyon home, but tomorrow he resolves to seek out answers. He thinks he knows where he can find them.

* * *

Because Zayn had never expected to seek Louis out, he finds himself wasting much of the next morning stopping Nakizi from his own Nakin and asking after Liam’s vulkeyun. If any find his inquiries strange, they do not voice it. However, when Zayn edges out towards the southernmost buildings of the canyon city, he does wonder if he has been misled. The path he wanders down, too unkempt to be called a street, ends in a cluster of three buildings and then a wide, empty space that sprouts sparse patches of the long grass common throughout Cazikan. He is at the edge of the city, the edge of the canyon floor, and he resigns himself to trekking back into the heart of it to find a familiar face to ask this time.

Then the unmistakable fast-moving shadow of a dragon in flight falls over him, and Zayn’s head snaps up to watch as Fraeyn alights ahead of him, landing with grace in the clearing that now has an obvious purpose.

His eager feet move without much thought, and he rounds the largest building to see Fraeyn dipping her head into a great pool of water. Before he can announce himself, he kicks some pebbles, which skitter along the canyon floor, and Fraeyn’s head whips up, golden eyes narrowed. She chitters when she recognizes him, and Zayn smiles widely back at his dragon.

 “Hello,” he murmurs. “Sashuin, Fraeyn.” His hands find her head, and he feels an unbearable peace when the familiar edges of her scales slide beneath his palms. Fraeyn presses into the touch, chirping at him in the strange call of her kind, a cross between birds and cats.

He has missed his dragon, who has been scarce since their arrival in the city home. Harry had warned him such might be the case until winter truly set in. Once the winter season took the land, the dragons stayed close to the canyon as their primary source of food, but before that, the beasts preferred to stray from the Nakin and the crowded canyon walls. As a result, Zayn’s interactions with Fraeyn had been limited to whenever he managed to catch her, an impossible-seeming task.

Now, as she nearly purrs beneath his ministrations, he thinks to mock her for it. He does not get the chance however, as the call of his name interrupts their silent moment.

Harry grins as he steps out of the large building just behind them. “I did not think to see you here.”

“You did not think to tell me what I could find here,” Zayn gently chastises back. If Harry had told him he was more likely to see his dragon here, he would hardly have left.

Harry’s impish grin says that he knows exactly what Zayn is thinking. “Ah, but then you would never explore our beautiful city, and you must do that.”

Zayn snorts inelegantly. Cazikan may be larger than he had expected, and might have a wealth of curiosities due to the nomadic style of the Nakizi people, but even he cannot find new things to occupy every day.

Perhaps admitting this, Harry ducks his chin in a short nod. “Well, and it is habit not to mention this place to others. The Nakizi from other Nakins might never leave me be, then.” At Zayn’s surely puzzled look, Harry grins once more and then tips his arms forward. Clasped in the cradle of his arms rests the unmistakable sight of a dragon egg.

Zayn’s eyes widen, and he gapes at Harry. “What –”

 “This is my home,” Harry interrupts to nod his head back towards the cluster of buildings. “I try to do most of my work here, while we are within the safety of the canyon walls.”

 He clearly means this statement to be an explanation, but it only raises more questions for Zayn. Somehow, the one that makes it to his lips is, “Your home? But I was told I would find Louis here.”

“ _And you have,”_ the unmistakable tone of irritation announces Louis more than the words do, and when Zayn looks up, Louis emerges from the same doorway that Harry had exited. Louis offers no other explanation, and Zayn’s eyes dart between the two. Harry looks a curious mix of annoyed and amused, but he does not bother correcting or explaining Louis’s presence, almost as though he does not find it remarkable.

 _Oh,_ Zayn thinks, and then, _I had not realized._ He opens his mouth, half-fearful of what new thing he will ask, but Louis beats him to speaking once more.

 “ _And what do you want with me?”_

It is a fair question. Though their relationship has perhaps been better since they watched collocium together, they are not friendly. Zayn would also perhaps venture that Louis tolerates him since watching his display with the whip, but he would not guess Louis to have feelings much beyond that. He understands why Louis would be confused about his appearance here.

“ _I would ask to speak with you.”_

Louis scoffs. “ _We have nothing to speak of.”_ At Harry’s hiss of disapproval, Louis rolls his eyes and corrects his statement. “ _We have little to speak of. We have hardly anything in common, city prince.”_

Zayn grits his teeth at the nickname; it is not the insult it might be in another’s mouth, but it is not a term of affection either. He reminds himself that this conversation is necessary, and that Louis is most likely to give him the honesty he seeks. He needs answers. “ _We have Liam in common.”_

Louis straightens, and Harry’s arms tighten around the egg he still holds. _“You wish to speak of Liam with me.”_

There is danger lurking in Louis’s voice, a clear warning, and Zayn struggles not to bow to it. He needs answers. “ _I do,”_ his eyes flick to Harry, and he nearly feels bad when he adds, “ _Alone. I wish to speak with you alone.”_

Harry’s dislike of Zayn’s request is expected, but what is unexpected is the way that Louis waves Harry off with almost no consideration. Harry clearly does not expect Louis’s willingness either, his green eyes wide as he looks to Louis.

“Louis –”

 _“It is fine,”_ Louis’s eyes do not leave Zayn. There is something calculating on his angular face. “ _If he wishes to speak with me, let him.”_

Zayn expects Harry to put up more of a fight, after all it is not out of character for Harry to place himself between Louis and Zayn, but Harry only sighs and retreats back into the large building. His last glance back reveals brows furrowed with concern, but he says nothing as he disappears from view.

Louis stalks forward after Harry’s departure, brushing past Zayn but careful to keep from touching Fraeyn, who still lingers at Zayn’s side. He does not look back to see if Zayn follows him, but he does call over his shoulder, “ _If you desire a private conversation, we will have to walk and talk. In Cazikan, even the walls have ears.”_

It is not an unfamiliar sentiment to Zayn, who did, after all, grow up in a City court. With one last regretful stroke to the bridge of Fraeyn’s nose and a whispered promise to visit more, Zayn sets out after Louis. He catches up to the vulkeyun quickly enough, and he cannot tell if his speed has improved or if Louis had intentionally kept a slower pace to allow him to catch up with ease. Either is perhaps an improvement though, so Zayn does not concern himself with thinking overly long about it.

" _Speak,”_ Louis commands after barely a moment of silence between them.

Zayn represses the urge to snap back, aware that any time spent with Louis is a gift that may be rescinded at Louis’s slightest whim. He sets his body to follow the miniscule cues of Louis’s so that he follows the path Louis sets without thought, and sets his mind to his questions. If Louis were Niall, Zayn would ask outright, but Louis is not Niall.

 Zayn knows very little about Louis, but what he does know is this: Louis is loyal to Liam to a fault. He has seen that loyalty in their every interaction from the moment he set foot within the Nakin, and though he does not understand it completely, he understands the hard edges of loyalty like that. He understands how to work with it.

“ _Liam walks among the Nakizi freely every day.”_

Louis turns a startled look towards him, but Zayn keeps his face expressionless and his eyes forward. He sees the confused furrow of Louis’s brow from the corner of his eye, and nearly sighs with relief. His opening has not been too obvious then.

 “ _Yes,”_ Louis ventures, his voice slow as though he is choosing his words with care. “ _He loves Cazikan. He loves being here, among his people.”_

Zayn ignores the pointed way Louis shapes the words, his people. He is not here to spar with Louis over Liam’s loyalties, not today. _“He does seem to love it,”_ he comments instead. “ _He shows me a great many things each day, taking me throughout every corner of the City and pointing out the markings on each building. Yesterday, he showed me the homes of the Nakin aez Suto.”_

" _Marked with a compass,”_ Louis snorts. “ _I am certain even you would have realized that eventually.”_

_“Perhaps, but Liam enjoyed showing it to me regardless. You are right, he loves being here, among the people. He smiles whenever they bow their heads to him.”_

_“As he should,”_ Louis’s grin is fierce. “ _He should rejoice in their respect.”_

And so it is respect, Zayn thinks but takes care not to say. He had certainly thought so, but he would not pretend to know everything about the interactions of the various Nakins. This is why he needed to speak with Louis, whose pride of Liam overwhelms everything else.

 _“Yes,”_ Zayn ventures hesitantly, selecting his next words with extreme care. “ _They seem startled to see him walking throughout the city with me. The other Nalé do so less frequently.”_

 _“The other Nalé do not dare travel without their guard,”_ Louis smirks.

This too Zayn had noticed, and his heart races now to have it confirmed as well. He had not expected this conversation to go quite this well, and he is weary of his success making him overeager. “ _Is Liam safe then? Shouldn’t he also have a guard?”_

_“Liam can handle himself, and even if he could not, he would not be attacked here. He has too much respect.”_

_“So he has the respect of the other Nakizi, then? He has more respect than the other Nalé do.”_

Zayn can tell instantly that he has overstepped, for Louis rounds on him suddenly, bright blue eyes narrowed. Zayn halts, hands coming up in surrender without thought.

 _“Enough,”_ Louis snaps. “ _Enough with your word games. Have we arrived at what you truly want to know then? Will you dare to ask me?”_

Zayn forces himself to swallow around a dry throat, and he cannot help his nervous glance around them. They are alone, well and truly alone, on the outskirts of Cazikan still but far enough from Harry’s home that no one can overhear them. He reminds himself that Louis cannot kill him, cannot harm him. He reminds himself that Liam cares for him, that Louis would not dare do anything that would upset Liam.

“ _I do not –”_

_“Do not deny it!”_

Zayn switches his path quickly, going for the direct approach he had thought would not succeed. “ _You spoke to me once of Liam’s ambitions, of his wants and desires. This respect he receives, that has to do with what you spoke of.”_

The further narrowing of Louis’s eyes is answer enough, though he tries to deny it. _“You know not of what you speak. You know nothing.”_

_“I know that Liam has the respect of most of the Nakizi here, that he is the only Nalé who receives this respect from Nakizi outside of his own Nakin. I know that our Nakin is larger than any other, that Liam has defeated more warriors and more Nalé than any of the others. I know that his mother rules Cazikan as the caretaker in the absence of any Nalé.”_

The surprise on Louis’s face at this moment would confirm Zayn’s statements even had Zayn not been sure of them beforehand. However, Zayn was certain before he confronted Louis. The Nakizi forget, or perhaps do not realize the implications of, the fact that Zayn was raised to be a ruler in his own right. From the day he was born, Zayn’s education was shaped around the idea that one day he would be responsible for the safety of his City, for the safety of his people, and this was always a job he took seriously. He may not have the pure power of Liam, he may not have the same fighting capability, but Zayn honed the talents he did have. He is an observant person by nature, a curious person, and one to whom knowledge comes swift and easy.

It has been no hard thing to accrue knowledge during his long days in Cazikan, and people do not know enough of him to be wary. No one has taken care to hide enough from him, and Zayn has been watching.

He presses his advantage, hoping Louis’s surprise will make him give something away. “ _Liam’s ambitions have earned him respect, have earned him the attention of the rest of the Nakizi, and he wants to use that. He wants to –”_

 _“Stop,”_ Louis hisses, stepping forward so quickly that it startles Zayn into stumbling back. His blue eyes blaze, and he looks furious. “ _Stop pretending you understand anything of Liam’s ambitions or his wants. If you did, you would not still be here. You would not flaunt your presence at his side and be a danger to him!”_

It is nothing Louis has not said to him before, but the words sound more familiar than that. Zayn casts his mind about, searching for the memory, and he finds it after a moment. Louis had said something similar to him the last time they had argued, when Louis had unintentionally told Zayn the truth of the claiming, the thing that Liam had failed to do. Louis had called Zayn a danger then too, a danger and an indulgence. Zayn had not understood it then, and he does not now, though he feels that he is close to understanding. He only needs a little more information, and he is sure that he could understand.

So, recklessly, he presses Louis more. “ _I am no danger to him. He did not claim me, once, but he has claimed me since. Every Nakizi in our Nakin is aware –”_

 _“You are an idiot if you think the way Liam behaves towards you is as he should, as he would if he had taken a Nakizi for his mate,”_ Louis snarls. “ _You are an outsider, and he treats you like one!”_

 _“If I am an outsider than so is Niall,”_ Zayn shouts back, hurt forcing the words from him, causing him to lose control of their conversation.

 _“Yes!”_ Louis shouts back, throwing his hands skyward and clenching his fists like he wishes for nothing more than a weapon in his grip. “ _Yes, he is! He is, but he has earned his spot among our people. He has fought and bled and killed for that right, and you have not. You never will! You are an indulgence, a pretty thing that caught Liam’s eye and an unfortunate prophecy that –”_

_“You know of the prophecy.”_

Louis pauses, his chest rising and falling harshly as his mouth moves silently. If Zayn thought him a man likely to regret his own actions, he would say Louis regretted what he had said. Louis does not seem one to entertain regret though, so it is not surprising when he continues, “ _Of course I know of the prophecy. It confirmed Liam’s deepest wishes, his true ambitions. You think he did not share this with us, his blood brothers?”_

It snaps into place within Zayn’s mind in that moment, everything Louis had been saying, every unanswered question from their arguments, answered. He knows, suddenly, what Liam truly wants, what Louis fears that Zayn will ruin.

“He wishes to unite the Nakizi,” Zayn breathes, his eyes wide but unseeing.

He does not see Louis or the canyon surrounding them. Instead, he pictures the nightmare scene from his dream a handful of nights ago, the ruined throne room; he pictures Jesy as she appeared to him in the Nakin camp when she had told him the prophecy.

Zayn’s voice is rough with awe when he says, “He wishes to rule the Nakins as one people, as the one true Nalé.”

Zayn, foolishly he can see now, had thought the throne Jesy prophesized of would be a City throne, the throne of Hal, given to Liam through Zayn’s birthright, but if that had been Liam’s desire, then Liam would never have agreed to the terms of their marriage. It is no secret that Zayn had given up his own crown when he married Liam. If a City throne was what he desired, they would have never left Hal.

No, what Liam desires, what he is clearly poised to do, is unite the Nakizi as one Nakin, to rule his people as the only leader. It is an insane thing, an impossible thing, a thing that has not been done for centuries.

But it is a thing that Zayn could believe Liam capable of doing.

“He does,” Louis answers. “He does not say it, for fear or to hide his pride, but it is what he wishes.”

Zayn stares at Louis. “He will do it.”

“He might have,” Louis argues, though his tone has faded from anger to something like defeat. “He might have, had he not married you.”

Zayn’s gut twists, violent and sudden. That is wrong. He had similarly protested when he had heard the prophecy, had thought that surely, he could not gift Liam anything like the power of which Jesy spoke. “The prophecy…” He trails off, recalling the words that Jesy had last spoken to him, when his own fears had threatened to overwhelm him. “ _Such is your past, your present, your future, Zayn, kater aez draza, zishun aez Nalé, neza aez Nakin aez Draza. There is nothing else in this life for you.”_

He is meant to help Liam, to give him that which he seeks, and though he had not believed in the prophecy before, he finds himself believing in it now. For he has seen Liam in his home city, among his people; he has seen the respect that Liam has earned, that Liam continues to earn; he has experienced the loyalty that Liam, and only Liam, inspires.

“I will help him,” Zayn states. He hardly recognizes his own voice, strong and certain. It is nothing like him; it is everything like what he wishes to become.

Louis stares at him, blue eyes hard and distant. He does not believe, that much is apparent, even before he speaks. “ _You will hinder him.”_

Zayn glares at him, furious that Louis dares doubt his commitment to Liam and allowing that fury to guide him forward. _“You underestimate me, and you underestimate him.”_

_“I think an outsider husband, with nothing but a prophecy to recommend him, does not inspire confidence.”_

The words are meant to knock Zayn’s confidence from under his feet, but he does not allow them that power. He will not allow Louis to make him question his purpose, not now that it has become so clear. He will do this; he will do it for Liam and for himself. He will do it because it feels right.

It is that rightness that guides his next words, his solemn vow. “ _If it is confidence that the Nakizi lack in me, then I will find a way to inspire it.”_

He means every word. 

* * *

 

His conversation with Louis haunts his every thought, waking and sleeping, for days afterward. A jumble of voices follows his every step within the canyon walls, echoing in mockery. The prophecy intertwines with memories, every moment he doubted himself among the Nakin, every moment he trusted himself; every moment he felt weak, every moment he felt strong.

He seeks Liam out more, as he thinks, though he keeps those thoughts to himself. Rather than speaking of them, he speaks with his hands. He reaches for Liam in pleasure, seeking his own and wishing to give Liam pleasure, and he lets himself fall apart underneath his husband’s hands. He allows these moments between them to fill his heart, to build his confidence, and at night, when he lies alone and wishes for the warmth of Liam’s arms, he allows himself to think of a life in which Liam is the only Nalé, when Liam’s arms may not be denied to him within these canyon walls.

He dreams, and he thinks, and he plans.

It is not entirely surprising then, that it takes him so long to realize something that he should have noticed in the moment that it happened.

He is scouring Fraeyn’s scales one day, helping his dragon remove her dead skin, and he is replaying his conversation with Louis inside his head, when the realization hits him. The sand slips from his fingers, numb, and he does not notice the huff of irritation that Fraeyn releases. He is consumed within the realization, consumed by the awfulness of it and its implications.

Louis had spoken Core.

Louis had responded to Zayn’s Core, and he had spoken back. They had exchanged sentences in Zayn’s language, entire sentences, and Louis had understood perfectly. He had spoken it perfectly, as easily as Niall or Harry.

Niall, Zayn can understand. Niall is of the Cities, not originally of the Nakizi; he speaks the language because it is his own, and he might have taught Harry. Zayn had assumed he had taught Harry and probably at Harry’s own request. Harry seemed the type to wish to speak a language he would frequently hear, but Louis, Zayn could not imagine Louis wishing to learn the language of the Cities that he barely seemed to tolerate.

It made no sense for Louis to know Core unless he had been asked to learn it, and no one would ask that of Louis, no one would have the authority to command that of Louis, save one person. One person could ask that, and if that person had asked Louis to learn the language, then Zayn could see no reason why that person would not also learn Core.

Why would he not? Why would he not learn the language of the Cities that he traded with, the people that he would have to interact with? Why not learn the language of the continent he hoped to rule? Why not use his knowledge to his advantage? Why not learn Core?

There was no reason not to; there were a million reasons to do so.

On Fraeyn’s flank, Zayn’s hands curl into fists, and he thanks the skies that he is alone as he raises his head and releases a bellow of frustration loud enough to rival Fraeyn’s own cries.

He bellows because he hurts, and the hurt is consuming and big, so big that he cannot contain it within his body.

It is a betrayal, a betrayal on the heels of a vow that Zayn had only just made, and he does not know what to do with this new knowledge.

He has learned too much in the past few days. He has learned too much, and he does not know what to do with that knowledge.

He does not know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xamunakin – literally home of the Nakin; word for the central hall of Cazikan, where the Nalé reside while there and where all events of import take place
> 
> Lé’mzi – literally wife of the leader, a contraction of Nalé’m Nizi
> 
> Stenza a nenem kan – show to me my home
> 
> Likize – free one
> 
> Nakin aez Suto – Nakin of the south


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Surprise update!
> 
> So a couple of things – 
> 
> One, I got super lazy, so I did not fix the weird indent/no indent thing that AO3 does when I copy text in. I hate it, but laziness triumphs sometimes. So parts of this have indented paragraphs and parts do not. Sorry about that.
> 
> Two, I am not super wild about the way the pacing of this chapter ended up, but I had to compromise with myself because of reasons that I am going to get into, in the end notes. Please read this chapter before you read the end notes because I don’t want to take way from the chapter with a long-winded note to you guys beforehand. So enjoy the chapter and then read my note at the end!

If Zayn had thought to confront Liam – and he had thought about it, at length in the cold, dark of night while he still ached for Liam’s arms around him even as the thought turned his stomach and made his jaw clench – his plans were ruined the next morning. It was not his own fear which stopped him, but rather the worst kind of fear. The kind of fear so senseless and without reason that it twists into black hate and wipes away all reason.

            It was the fear of another man; the fear that man held for an outsider. 

* * *

 

            “Pinimk!”

            The shout is loud, even in the din of the crowded trading corridors, and rings with hatred, yet Zayn does not turn towards it. It is not a word typically cast in anger at him, so he does not think to worry; instead he continues to run his fingers along the intricate jewelry displayed in the booth before him. He does not turn his attention from the mindlessness of the wares, a welcome and chosen distraction this morning, until a sharp cry of pain echoes in his ear, the solid weight of a body hitting his back and causing him to pitch forward into the edge of the table set up before him.

            He catches himself before he topples over and turns in alarm, which only grows when he sees blood on tan hands. His gaze darts upward and a low noise of surprise punches out from him when he meets his guard Kaz’s wide eyes. Kaz is bleeding. Kaz’s hands are covered in blood, and Zayn does not know where it has come from, what has happened, what is happening. Everything is chaos, and when the first scream rends the air, Zayn finds himself surrounded by his shouting vulkezi, Niall, and Louis.

            The hot press of bodies engulfs him, but Zayn’s hands find Kaz, find his guard who is injured, bleeding, hurt. Their hands knot at Kaz’s navel, and Zayn presses, presses, presses until he feels wet heat and knows. Kaz has been stabbed. When Kaz falls, his legs giving out suddenly beneath him and collapsing, Zayn falls with him. He sees nothing but the tangled mess of their hands, red, red, red, and knows nothing but that he must keep them pressed firmly to Kaz’s gut.

            His ears ring. Everything is his hands and Kaz; nothing else exists. The pound of his heartbeat lays over the ringing in his ears and his vision narrows. He does not know how much time passes before finally a sound penetrates the fog of his addled mind.

            “–Pukuin!”

            His vision swims, he yanks his head up so quickly, but his eyes unerringly find the man who gave voice to an insult he remembers, vividly. The man is some distance from him, wielding a sword in one hand and a bloodied dagger in the other. His face is so distorted with emotion, Zayn cannot tell if the man is more enraged or fearful.

            He is a fool if he is not afraid though, for the confusion has cleared, the trading corridor empty around them save Zayn, Kaz, and Zayn’s vulkezi. Niall and Louis advance on the attacker, short daggers also drawn. Zayn is surprised by the presence of the weapons; the Nakizi do not carry weapons in their home city, whether because the need to does not exist or by some rule, he is not sure. However, he had noticed that the Nakizi of his own Nakin never bore weapons on their persons, or so he had thought. Evidence to the contrary rests in Niall and Louis’s hands as they advance on the attacker.

            The man continues to scream, his jumbled Nakizi lost to Zayn’s jumping mind, and when Niall gets too close the man takes a wild swing with his sword. Forced to fall back, Niall growls in frustration. Louis advances, but the man is quick to arc his sword once more, keeping them both at bay. He is quick, this man, and his sword is much lengthier than either dagger Niall or Louis hold. Zayn knows this wild swing is a defense the man cannot keep up forever, but it will take time for Niall and Louis to duck inside the arc of the longer sword. Zayn is not sure they have that time; the crowd which dispersed in the immediate aftermath of the attack is coming back. Zayn can hear their whispered voices, can see their hesitant steps as they are drawn back to the spectacle.

            “Zayn,” Ani’s voice is gentle but catches his attention. Her eyes and hands are kind as she kneels beside him and touches his hands. “Ki ne.”

            He blinks and suddenly her hands are under his, holding Kaz’s hands still against his bleeding gut. Zayn’s own hands fall away, to his lap where they rest palms up, the deep red of bleeding wounds and pain splashed across his skin. He cannot look away from them for long moments, his mind alternating between ringing silence and deafening buzzing, the sounds of his surroundings coming through only in patches.

            Still, he catches –

            “Ta praeshae hic! Ta praeshae pinimk!”

            The man speaks of him, of course. Zayn is surprised and laughs bitterly at himself for it. Why should he be surprised? Not all of the Nakizi have welcomed him here, in their home, and those who have not, have made no secret of their wariness. Yet an attack he had never expected. Zayn is a fool.

            The man shouts once more, demanding an answer, demanding to know why they are protecting Zayn, and Zayn finds himself looking up. The man is still some distance from him, but Niall and Louis have gotten no closer to him. More alarmingly, Zayn can see where several other Nakizi have begun to stand behind the other man, and they are not Nakizi Zayn recognizes. Zayn’s heart, which had finally slowed, picks up its pace once more. If the other Nakizi choose to back this man, this attacker, this confrontation will soon turn into a fight, but they cannot fight here.

            “ _Tell me why you protect him!”_ The man screeches once more, spittle flying from his mouth.

            “ _He is the husband of my Nalé,”_ Niall returns, firm and calm in the face of this man’s lunacy. “ _He is of my tribe.”_

            The man spits at the ground in disgust and swipes his sword in Niall’s direction. He turns his attention to Louis and demands, “ _And you, of the true blood? You of the Nakizi? You defend this outsider, this city-scum?”_

 _“My Nalé commands it,”_ Louis returns, his voice empty of any emotion.

            Zayn’s hands clench in his lap, though he reminds himself that he had not truly expected more, not from Louis.

            The man laughs, a grating, rending sound. “ _Then he must be a weak Nalé, a weak man with a weak mate. Weak men deserve no respect.”_

This comment strikes fear and loathing into Zayn’s very heart. It is exactly as Louis feared, as he predicted when Zayn confronted him. Zayn has cost Liam the respect of the Nakizi, has done such harm that this man sought to kill him in the middle of Cazikan rather than allow his presence within the canyon.

            It is an unbearable thought, yet Zayn thinks he will learn to bear it, because he sees no other option. Until the man’s next words.

            “ _Perhaps I shall challenge him, your Nalé.”_

“Gazekav ne.”

            Zayn does not think he imagines the depth of the silence this announcement wreaks, the pure fullness of the moment after his voice has echoed over them all. The very wind stills, he thinks; Kiza holds its breath.

            The man laughs, loud, his entire face tilted up so that his display is one of mockery. He leers at Zayn when he looks back to him. “Ta?” he mocks.

            Zayn stands, rising slowly but steadily. He does not falter, even as Niall hisses, sharp and worried. Zayn walks forward to stand just behind him and Louis, his entire body falling into a state of calm he has never known before. Certainty, he thinks, is a curious thing, for it comes all at once and takes one over wholly.

            Zayn’s voice does not falter when he repeats, “ _Challenge me.”_

            The mirth slips from the man’s face, sand over rocks. “ _For the honor of being a weak Nalé’s bitch? To be bred? I am no man’s whore.”_

The words hold no weight with Zayn, slipping from his shoulders with the breeze and finding no purchase on his person. He has heard worse; he has overcome worse. He tilts his head, evaluating the man’s stance, his tight grip on his weapons. The lack of color in his fingertips, clenched tightly around the leather handles, betrays him; he is afraid.

            Zayn is not. He could swear he has never tasted fear. Moreover, he suddenly finds that he has nothing to lose. If his very presence is costing Liam, then even his death would be beneficial.

            “ _Accept my challenge,”_ he dares calmly. The man sneers, so Zayn presses. “ _Accept my challenge or admit that you fear a whore.”_

The man releases an enraged shout, the grip on his dagger flipping as though he means to throw it. Louis steps deftly into the pathway, glaring. The crowd presses closer, shouting, some voices catching together in a chant. One intent is clear from the swell of their voices; they urge the man to accept Zayn’s challenge.

            “ _You will not accept the challenge of a weaponless man,”_ Louis warns, raising his voice to be heard over the tumult of the crowd and sparing Zayn an irritated glance. “ _If you accept, it will be my weapon you face.”_

 _“_ Vulkeyun _?”_ the man demands. “ _To this whore, you are a sworn brother?”_

Louis hesitates, his mouth unwilling to form the lie, and this, this is the thing that decides it for Zayn.

            His whip, when it unfolds from his satchel, makes a clanking metallic sound and hits the dirt with a thud loud enough to grab the attention of every Nakizi nearby. The crowd hushes. Zayn flicks his wrist, just enough for the flag at the end to slither through the loose sand, a snake’s warning hiss.

            “ _No,”_ Zayn declares into the silence of the crowd. “ _No, he is not, but as you can see –”_ and his whip snaps once _“– I am no weaponless man. You will fight me.”_

            The man grins, vicious. He does not hesitate. “E uci.”

            The shout of the surrounding crowd, a malevolent breathing thing, is deafening, and a clear ring forms around Zayn, the man, and those of Zayn’s people who do not move with the crowd. Niall and Louis turn on each other, barely keeping their voices below a shout as they apparently argue, but Zayn pays them no mind. He turns his focus to his vulkezi, their faces blank but determined as they refuse to retreat, although the challenge has been accepted and their culture demands that they should.

            It touches his heart, for a moment, these loyal Nakizi, but he knows their loyalty to their own customs will win out, if he pushes them. He kneels then and addresses Ani. He touches the back of her hand, still pressed to Kaz’s gut, Kaz whose eyes are closed, and Zayn prays it is merely in unconsciousness.

            “Dek,” he commands quietly. When she glares in return, he presses harder with his fingertips. “ _He needs aid. Help him.”_

Ani grits her teeth and speaks through them. “ _I am meant to protect you.”_

Zayn cannot help his small smile at such loyalty. He is not at all sure that he deserves it. “ _My father used to say you cannot protect a man from his own folly.”_

_“Your father is wiser than you.”_

Zayn laughs and agrees, for it is true. It does not change his mind, however. “ _Go. I will survive.”_

Her expressions says she doubts that, and Zayn cannot blame her for it.

            It does not change his mind. “ _Do not make me command it,”_ he warns at last, when none of his vulkezi have made motions to depart. He allows steel to slip inside his voice, the steel he was taught to forge at birth, the steel of command a prince can wield.

            It works; Ani stands abruptly, and the others move at her cue. Ezra and Eli grab Kaz, as gentle as they can in their hurry, and the crowd parts easily so the four figures can be swallowed up. They are gone, just like that.

            Zayn stares after them for just a moment, allowing himself to take and then release a large breath. He imagines the air rushing through his body, coating every inch of him like cool water and bestowing a perfect calm.

            When he turns back to the man, his opponent, only Niall and Louis remain between them in the circle the crowd has made. He looks to them, wondering if another argument is in his future, but he sees Louis’s hand wrapped firmly over Niall’s wrist, stilling the dagger that Niall clearly wishes to throw.

            _“I will fight,”_ Zayn states, no room for argument.

            “ _You will,”_ Louis looks unhappy, though Zayn doubts it is at the risk to Zayn’s person. It is more likely unhappiness at Liam’s reaction, once he learns of today.

            Niall’s unhappiness, however, is aimed entirely at Zayn and harder to swallow for it. “You fight only because there is no way for us to stop it. If we had been anywhere but in Cazikan…” he breaks off and shakes his blonde head in pure frustration. When he looks back, his blue eyes brim with water at the edges. “You had better win.”

            Zayn cannot tell if it is a threat or a plea, but he nods regardless. He intends to win. And if he does not, well, finding another mate will be no hardship for Liam.

            When Niall and Louis step to the side, pushing into the ring of eager spectators, the man releases a joyous laugh.

            “ _Convinced your protectors, have you?”_ he mocks. “ _Or do they welcome your quick death?”_

_“They welcome yours.”_

The man’s smile turns hard, and he flips his two weapons showily. When a red ruby in the handle of each catches Zayn’s eyes, he is not surprised. He pushes the thought away for now, a needless distraction.

            _“I will enjoy spilling your blood.”_

Zayn holds up his bloodied hands, painted with the sacrifice of his guard. “ _This will be the only blood you see from me, until I spill yours.”_

            The Nakizi fighting style, unlike that of the few duals that Zayn has witnessed in the Cities, requires no declaration before beginning. Zayn noticed the suddenness of it when he watched collucium. So, when the man wordlessly charges after Zayn’s declaration, Zayn is ready for it.

            He sidesteps the charge with ease and raises his hand in the same motion. The end of his whip sings until it thuds against the man’s ankle, wrapped firm enough to trip with one solid yank. When the man hits the dirt, the crowd screams. Zayn does not allow it to distract him and is grateful for it when the man almost immediately finds his feet once more.

            He screams back at the crowd and any amusement has faded from his expression. He grimaces, and his hatred is readily apparent. Zayn can nearly taste his rage in the dusty air between them. He charges, his dagger raised, and sword held parallel for an intended swipe across Zayn’s abdomen. Zayn rushes to meet him. He blocks the swords, his whip coiling around the sharp blade, but settles for merely turning his head aside so the dagger misses its mark.

            The sharp sting across his face marks him a liar, the flow of blood almost immediate and the rapture of the crowd endless in response. He ignores it and ducks, continuing his own charge so that his momentum pulls his whip tight until suddenly it releases, the sword yanked away. He allows his body to fall forward into an inelegant roll and concentrates solely on maintaining his grip around the handle of his weapon. When he springs up, dusty and bloody, his whip lays across his back, and he uses the force of his motion and another turn, his arm flinging recklessly outward, to toss the sword away. He does not care where the sword ends up so long as it is far from the other man.

            His aim is true. The sword clatters to the dirt some distance into the crowd in complete silence. Zayn’s chest heaves, his bloodied cheek stinging, but when he sees the pure surprise on his opponent’s face, he grins.

            The man steps back, uncertain for perhaps the first time since he faced Zayn alone. His eyes dare not leave Zayn’s whip, which rests at his side. Zayn resists twitching it just to see the man’s reaction. He knows better.

            “ _What weapon is this?”_ the man demands, his rage leaking into his face. “ _A weak city weapon?”_

 _“My weapon,”_ Zayn returns, refusing to rise to the bait.

            “ _It will be mine soon.”_

Zayn does not allow the other man to charge first this time. His feet are fast, the aim of his whip accurate as he slides it across the dirt, aiming to trip once more.

            And that is his mistake.

            The man jumps, Zayn’s whip harmlessly whistling through air, and then he is upon Zayn. Zayn’s arm barely comes up in time, the familiar motion of hoisting a shield, but no wood covers his skin this time. The bite of the dagger is sharp, lodging deep within his flesh, and he swears he feels it scrape bone. A pained cry escapes his mouth, the animal instinct taking over.

When the man tugs, the pain flares, but this time it cuts through, giving Zayn clarity. He tucks his arm to his chest and turns against the man’s pull. The blade chews into his arm, and he has to clamp his jaw to keep another scream in. With blind elbows, he shoves the other man from him, scrambling. He falls to his knees and rolls once more, coming up in a kneeling stance with his whip shakily held in a trembling hand pressed to the dirt and a dagger buried in his other arm, cradled to his chest.

            He needs a moment to compose himself, his entire vision flooded with dust kicked up from his body and his mind awash in pain, but the other man gives him no allowance. He runs forward, clearly wary of remaining weaponless for long, and Zayn barely manages to snake his whip out in a wide arc. The man overcorrects to escape the singing metal, but he maintains his feet. He stops just outside of the whip’s reach, evaluating.

            The crowd roars, feet stamping and kicking up more dust. Zayn is at a disadvantage, despite the man’s weaponless hands. He is injured, and not too proud to admit that he is unaccustomed to fighting through pain like this. He will need to stop, and soon.

            His heart sings, his blood drips, and he heaves in breaths. Every part of his person burns, but his mind, his mind clears.

            A plan comes to him, one that he doubts a true fighter, like Liam or Niall, would approve of, but the only one he can think of.

            He does not hesitate.

            Cracking his whip towards the man’s face, knowing it will not reach, he waits for the expected reaction. The man recoils, his gaze distracted, and Zayn takes advantage. He drops his whip and prays it is not the mistake that costs him his life. In the same motion, he runs his now empty hand along the ground, rough sand collected against his palm. He darts forward, keeping low, until the man glances back down. Zayn flings his fingers up, releasing the sand into the man’s eyes. When he shouts, hands coming up to claw at the dust, Zayn presses his last advantage.

            With a powerful yell, he yanks the blade from his arm and shoves it, forward and up.

He has never killed a man before, but he knows the motion well. Strike upward, underneath the rib cage, and press until you feel the sickening give of flesh, and then keeping pressing. He practiced it, endlessly, with his father’s sharp voice in his ears. ‘You will not die defenseless,’ his father always used to say. ‘You will know how to strike a heart.’

And so, Zayn does.

Zayn drives the blade into the other man with all the force of his body and lets his momentum bear them both to the ground. His knees thud to the dirt on either side of the man’s chest, his palm pressing hard into the handle of the dagger so that his whole weight drives it down. He thinks it hits the dirt, piercing the man straight through.

            The surprised gasp that leaves the man’s throat will haunt Zayn for days, but the empty eyes he gazes into once the dust clears will haunt him for much longer.

            The man is dead; he is victorious.

            It is clearly an unexpected outcome, for silence reigns, with only his labored breathing disturbing the air. He heaves in breaths, relishing the harsh drag of each one as it scrapes into his lungs, and gazes down at the dead man. His first kill.

            When he tilts his head back, he is not sure what sound will come out. He only knows of the pressing need to release something.

            The yell is primal, feral, the cry of a predator after the hunt, or the protector after saving those in its care. It is a yell of victory, but a cry of ending, nevertheless. He shouts and shouts and shouts until his voice tapers off and his throat feels as raw as the scrape along his cheek, the wound on his arm. He screams his victory out, and then, when he stops, he rises, leaving the dagger with its winking ruby in the body of its owner.

            _Let them see that ruby and know,_ he thinks.

            When he turns, the shuttered faces of unfamiliar Nakizi greet him. Their dark eyes stare at him with what might be wonder, though he is too tired to care. _And let that be hatred if they desire,_ he thinks, for he is done trying to change their minds. He walks to his whip, his steps slow and dragging and marked with drops of dark blood as it flows from his arm. His fingers wrap surely around the familiar handle of his whip, and he does not think he imagines that this is the moment that sound starts once more.

            It begins with the quiet whispers of a brook but quickly swells into the full rush of a river cascading over rocks. It swells and swells and swells, and then it breaks.

            “Makize! Makize! Makize!”

            Zayn straightens his shoulders, wary, for he does not know this word, but none of the Nakizi move towards him in anger. None of them move at all. Instead every gaze remains affixed on him as they chant, their feet stomping in unison. He watches them, but the chant only continues, every person saying the same as their feet keep time. It sweeps inside of him, filling him, this chant, and he finds himself standing underneath the weight of it, holding it.

            When his gaze finally finds Louis and Niall their lips do not move, and their faces cannot hide their surprise. He stares steadily at them, refusing to wilt under the eyes of those he knows. He is not ashamed, and he will not question his own power here, in this moment.

            He won, and he will not be made to feel shame for that.

            Louis steps forward, his eyes bright and his mouth upturned in what Zayn might consider a smile, but before he can say a word, a commotion at the outskirts of the crowd interrupts the chant.

            Silence falls and then is split by a familiar, deep voice.

            “ _What has happened here?”_

“Liam,” Zayn breathes, almost silently and to himself. For the first time since he made his challenge, he lets his shoulders slump. All anger at Liam for his dishonesty fades; all worry over what Zayn may be costing him disappears. At the sound of Liam’s voice, all Zayn desires is to place himself in Liam’s arms, entirely within his husband’s care.

            The crowd parts, Nakizi falling to the sides, and Liam’s form emerges.

            Zayn is surprised, when he catches sight of Liam’s face, to see poorly concealed worry there. He is making an effort to conceal it, his stride firm, his shoulders square and his hand resting easily on the pommel of a sword strapped quickly to his waist, but Zayn can see the worry in his eyes.

            Liam is afraid.

            He spots Louis and Niall first, and his lips part in what will be a demand, Zayn can nearly see the shape of it on his tongue; Liam’s eyes find Zayn first though.

            The fear melts off of him, every place that held tension loosening once their eyes meet. A smile tugs at Zayn’s lips, and his own anger, ever present since his realization, fades to the back of his mind. Liam had been worried about him, and to see the evidence of his husband’s concern so plainly displayed, soothes a dark questioning place within Zayn’s heart.

            “Zayn,” Liam sighs his name, so infrequently upon his lips that it startles Zayn. When Liam’s eyes drop from his face, Zayn has to fight not to tense, but he does not. He will not be ashamed of what he has done, not even when Liam’s gaze clearly finds the body displayed behind him. Liam’s eyebrows arch, but his eyes quickly return to Zayn’s arm which continues to bleed. Throughout his examination of the scene before him, though, never once does the concern leave Liam’s face.

            When his eyes return to Zayn’s face, something very like pride shines in them. “ _What happened here?”_ he repeats but quieter, asking Zayn.

            There are many ways Zayn could answer that question, some of them truer and some of them less so, but only one answer feels right in this moment, with so many eyes upon them.

            He steps forward and then sinks into a graceful kneel before Liam’s feet. When he bows his head, he places his whip on the ground. His voice does not wave when he answers, “ _He disrespected my Nalé.”_

Liam sucks in a surprised gasp of air, and Zayn looks up. He cannot tell if Liam’s surprise comes from Zayn’s answer or his actions, but it thrills him regardless.

            It also prompts Zayn to continue, “ _He disrespected my husband.”_

Liam’s fingers twitch towards Zayn’s face, where his cheek still bleeds he is sure, but Liam restrains himself. “ _Did you murder him?”_

It is a smart question, and so Zayn does not begrudge him asking it. He does stand when he answers though, refusing to lie at his husband’s feet for this part. His gaze is level, fear nowhere in his body, when he answers, “ _No. For his disrespect I challenged him, and when he accepted, I won.”_

The pride that sweeps over Liam’s face at this admission cannot be hidden, and when his hands twitch this time, he does not stop himself. His palms come up to cradle to sharp bones of Zayn’s cheeks, headless of the blood that paints one. His brown eyes sweep over Zayn, from forehead to chin, lingering on his lips and then on his eyes.

            Liam does not look away when he demands, “ _Someone tell me of the truth of this. Now!”_

Louis is the one who steps forward, and when he speaks, his voice is certain. “ _Zayn challenged the man, and he won. He has earned a killing mark.”_

The crowd takes up its chant again. “Makize!” The word echoes and echoes and echoes as feet stamp, and Zayn and Liam are enveloped in the dome of sound.

            Liam’s grip tightens, and his brown eyes brighten. He is proud, endlessly and without shame, as he gazes at Zayn, who stares back.

            “Makize,” Liam breathes, and then he presses his lips hard to Zayn’s. It is a quick but brutal kiss, conveying the triumph Liam feels and leaving Zayn’s heart racing when Liam pulls away too soon. “ _You have earned your mark.”_

* * *

 

Liam cares for Zayn that night, in a way that Zayn had never thought to expect. His fingers are gentle as he cleans and bandages Zayn’s wounds, and his lips are even softer as he drags them over Zayn’s cheek, his knuckles, his bared shoulder.

            When he enters Zayn that night, he is gentle then too, and they move slowly together.

            Zayn thinks about voicing some of his fears, that his presence in Liam’s life will cost Liam respect or his dream of uniting the Nakizi, but Zayn bites them back. He bites back too the question he has about Liam’s ability to speak Core. Now, this night, is not the time. He lets Liam’s very real concern, Liam’s obvious affection for him, soothe those fears into submission.

            Zayn tries not to think about his own willingness to risk his life as they lie together afterward in the house of Liam’s mother. Zayn thinks he cares more for his husband than his husband will ever care for him, but as Liam gently traces his lips, his cheekbones, where his eyelashes lay, he wonders how much that truly matters when his feelings are what they are.

            When Liam presses them together and presses a kiss to Zayn’s forehead, he mutters that their bonding and the choosing – two events that Zayn had nearly forgotten still need to take place while they are in Cazikan – will happen in four days’ time. His joy at this happening at last is audible, and Zayn thinks he can survive this, so long as Liam cares.

            He can survive loving his husband. 

* * *

 

            The smell of burning wood haunts Zayn, his head foggy, or perhaps that is just the swirling clouds of smoke which linger amongst the kneeling forms of the Nakizi, sat in a wide circle and chanting eerily in time with large drums. Their hands smack the leather on their thighs, keeping time as they speak.

            “ _Bind them. Bind what once was two, to one. Bind them. Bind what once was two, to one. Bind them_.”

            Zayn kneels among them, his vulkezi on either side of him, and he swallows convulsively trying to keep dizziness at bay. He cannot tell if the dizziness is fear or pain or whatever herbs they keep throwing among the flames to increase the haze of smoke in the clearing before the xamunakin. His arm throbs with the pulse of his heart, a stark killing band wrapped around his bicep, the product of an entire day’s labor underneath Ani’s skilled hands, a needle, and ink. She had offered him wine to weaken the pain when it became clear he would be receiving his mark today, an honor for his bonding ceremony day, but he wished to have a clear head when he sought the acceptance of his Nakin, when the Nakizi finally accepted him as their own.

            He looks like their own today, more so than he ever has before. His hair, finally a long enough length from months of unattended growth, sits heavy and intricately braided, done by the skillful fingers of Liam’s mother this morning. Her request to braid his hair was her own acceptance of him, just one step of many that he needs to complete before the Nakizi will view his marriage a true one, before the bonding is complete.

            Zayn forces himself to breathe out and then in again deeply to calm his nerves. His fingers flex in the stiff leather that covers his legs, a gift from Louis, Harry, and Niall that the former had delivered that morning. A gift from the vulkeyun, another step in his bonding, and one that had perhaps meant more because Louis had chosen to be the one to give it. The leathers are strong, beaten soft and supple against his skin. Zayn is bare from the waist up, his only decorations the new killing mark around his bicep and the gleaming leather of his marriage cuff.

            He had worked tirelessly on polishing it throughout the day, as the sun completed its arch across the sky. As soon as Ani had released his arm with its newly completed mark, he had set to work. The third, and final, mark of his readiness to be bonded, after the acceptance of the gift from his betrothed’s family and vulkeyun, and his acceptance of his killing band, Zayn had to ready his marriage band or else remove it, to indicate his desire. He had refused to let his fingers leave the band, fearful someone would take the choice from him when he was desperate to make that choice his own.

            He would be bonded today, under the eyes of the Nakizi. He would claim his husband.

            The fruits of Zayn’s efforts are apparent in the bright gleam of the leather, which throws back the flickering firelight they kneel around. The ceremony had begun in earnest once darkness had fallen, the Nakizi arranging themselves into a neat circle, the drums appearing, and the chant beginning almost all at once. Now they sit in silence only interrupted by the same chant and wait.

            “ _Bind them. Bind what once was two, to one. Bind them. Bind what once was two, to one. Bind them_.”

            Zayn can hear the high, clear voice of Liam’s mother behind him, the firmness of her conviction as soothing as a hand upon his shoulder. She has accepted him. Louis, Niall, and Harry have accepted him. He will have the acceptance of the Nakin aez Draza tonight. He will be of the Nakizi people.

            A shifting at the outskirts of the fire draws Zayn’s attention, and his breath catches when he sees the striding figures of a group of Nakizi moving toward him. He recognizes the even, sure gait of his husband at the head. Liam is here.

            It has begun.

            The chanting ends the moment Liam sets a foot inside the clearing at the heart of the circle. Fire gleams on the gold wound throughout his hair, done in the style that Zayn so loves to braid himself, and Liam’s skin shines with oil. Zayn catches a new dark half-band wrapped around Liam’s forearm, making the number of half-bands tattooed there four now, but he does not have time to wonder at its new appearance. Liam does not pause his stride as his warm, brown eyes settle on Zayn’s kneeling form. He walks with confidence to stand before Zayn, and when Zayn tips his head back, Liam rests a gentle finger underneath his chin.

            They gaze at each other in complete silence, the night air wrapped around them, for among the Nakizi everything of importance happens in the open air.

            Liam’s vulkeyun silently fall into line behind him, similarly decorated, though none of course as finely dressed as Liam. The other Nalé making their way to stand closer to the fire, mute observers. Even the Nalé of the Nakin aez Eruba stands witness, though Zayn is certain it was his man that had challenged Zayn. He is not sure what will be done about that, if anything, but now is not the time to concern himself with that.

            Now he lets his only concern be Liam.

As everyone stares, and Zayn holds Liam’s unwavering gaze, he wonders how they appear from the outside. Do they seem what they started out as, a Nakizi man and a city-dweller, facing off? Or do they seem what they are now, a husband and a husband about to be bound? Do they view Zayn as one of them? Does Liam?

            Zayn hopes so.

            Liam’s finger taps once at Zayn’s chin, ensuring he has Zayn’s attention, before he speaks. “Dazun.”

            Zayn is rising before the order is done leaving Liam’s lips, called instinctively to Liam’s side. His body, his blood, hums with a desire to be nearer, to be as near as he is allowed.

            “Lé’mzi,” Liam calls, holding Zayn’s gaze.

            The swish of fabric announces the arrival of Liam’s mother as she stands and then walks towards them. She stops just to the side of them. When she speaks, her voice carries with it the power of her confidence. “ _We gather for the binding of two, to become one. They have tied themselves together and declared their intent,”_ her hands find both of their wrists, and she raises them so that both their marriage cuffs gleam in the firelight. The surrounding Nakizi release a cry of affirmation at the sight, and Zayn breathes out slowly. When Liam’s hand finds his in the air, fingers tangling, he grips back with gratitude.

            “ _Their intent is clear, but acceptance they must earn. Vulkeyun!”_

            Louis, Niall, and Harry step forward as one.

            “ _Do you accept this bond?”_

“ _Yn.”_

Not one of their voices dips or cracks or betrays hesitation, and Zayn fights a smile. Liam’s fingers tighten around his.

            Niall and Harry step back, but Louis takes one more step forward and addresses Liam’s mother. “Lé’mzi, _do you accept this bond?”_

 _“Yn.”_ Liam’s mother’s hands squeeze once around their wrists before she releases them. “ _I accept this bond.”_

 Zayn sways closer to Liam, wanting to feel the press of their bodies. Liam does not step back though he has enough control not to sway forward.

“Nakizi aez Nakin aez Draza, _do you accept this bond?”_

“Yn!” The affirmation echoes from dozens of throats, not one dissenter heard.

Zayn’s heart pounds and his other hand rises to rest against Liam’s chest without thought. Liam’s breath hitches and then he breathes out harshly. Their fingers have a hard grip on each other, marriage cuffs touching. Zayn can see Liam struggling to stay still, and his desire burns in his gut. “Liam,” his voice is rough. Liam twitches, obvious, but restrains himself.

Zayn swears he can hear laughter in the voice of Liam’s mother when she whispers, “ _Soon, my son.”_

Her voice is loud and carrying once more though when she announces, “ _Call the dragon!”_

Zayn takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he is prepared for this. He has known about this moment since nearly the beginning of his time in the Nakin. This is the moment that Fraeyn is meant to choose him.

This ceremony, the choosing ceremony, is normally separate from the bonding ceremony, a more private ceremony for just the Nakin aez Draza, but Zayn’s unusual relationship with Fraeyn had prompted the other Nalé to request a change, an exception to the Nakin aez Draza’s traditions. They wish to see this bond they have heard about, this reason for Liam to marry Zayn.

They wish to see Fraeyn choose Zayn as she had done once before, in Hal.

For their bonding to be complete, for the Nakizi to accept him, Zayn must prove his worth. He must prove that he has been chosen.

At Liam’s nod, Zayn whistles, loud and piercing, as Liam had taught him. It is a call the dragons are trained to heed, and one which Zayn has practiced with Fraeyn. He prays she chooses to acknowledge it tonight.

For an endless moment nothing happens, but then the beating of wings announces the appearance of Fraeyn above them, followed quickly by the swift movement of air as she prepares to land. The circle is large enough to accommodate her, and Zayn swears he can nearly taste the Nakizi’s anticipation as they all look skyward. The firelight does not penetrate the darkness, but Zayn waits for that first telltale gleam of Fraeyn’s red scales.

To soothe his nerves, he reminds himself that Fraeyn has chosen him before, that this is his dragon, that he has nothing to fear. It nearly works, the nerves leaving him slowly, until another noise interrupts his forced calm.

The beating of another set of wings is unmistakable, and then unbelievably, the addition of a third set of wingbeats. When the ground shakes underneath the heavy thud of something landing, it is with the weight of three dragons, not one.

Ossium, Fraeyn, and Xohen.

Gasps race around the edges of the circle, and Zayn cannot tell if his own voice is among them. The Nakizi skitter backward, making room for the large bodies of three dragons, instead of the one they had expected. Liam’s grip on him has become crushing, his other hand finding the small of Zayn’s back so that they are firmly pressed together, entangled hands pressed between their hearts, so the leather of their cuffs rubs against their bare skin.

“Liam,” Zayn’s voice wobbles, but he does not remove his eyes from the proud shapes of the three dragons where they stand in the clearing. It is a question, but Liam offers no answer. No one speaks.

Fraeyn chitters when her golden eyes spot Zayn, and she takes a step forward. Ossium swings his head back, snapping in warning at her. Fraeyn steps back, but her eyes narrow in displeasure.

Zayn laughs.

Ossium’s head snaps back to him, and Zayn can feel Liam tense in response. Yet Zayn feels no fear, not even as Ossium’s dark eyes focus solely on him.

It has been too long since Zayn has been among them, the dragons, but Fraeyn’s antics have reminded him. Fraeyn is his dragon, and it is his bond with her that has given him this life.

But she is not the only dragon he has interacted with.

He moves to step away from Liam, to go toward the three waiting beasts, but Liam’s hands stop him. When he glances back, Liam is staring at the dragons with narrow-eyed hesitation. Zayn bites his lip against another laugh, a fond one because his husband clearly means to protect him.

However, Zayn does not need protection.

“Liam.” Zayn raises a gentle hand to cup Liam’s jaw, turning his husband’s attention toward him. Their eyes meet, and Zayn lets his ease become apparent to soothe his husband’s fear. “ _Do you remember what you have called me?”_

Liam’s brow furrows.

Zayn cannot fault him for forgetting. Zayn himself had nearly forgotten. “ _I once rode Fraeyn,”_ he prompts, “ _but when I returned, it was on another dragon’s back. You called me –”_

“Kater aez Draza.” Liam’s smile is wide as he remembers, and he shifts suddenly to press a firm kiss to the palm of Zayn’s hand. “ _Of course, you are the son of dragons.”_ He needs no further prompting to release Zayn, and so Zayn turns once more towards the dragons, unhindered.

They watch him, even Xohen, calmly, crouched with their head lowered so they are nearly of a height with people. Zayn’s heart pounds inside of his chest, but it is not in fear. He has never had the gift of prophecy, but in this moment, he knows precisely what will happen. He has no fear.

When he steps forward, he does not hesitate. He walks evenly towards the three beasts and when he arrives level with Ossium’s lowered head, he holds the dragon’s eyes.

“Sashuin, Ossium,” he greets, quietly. He raises his hand, palm up, and shivers when he feels the warm breath of Ossium’s exhalation against his skin. “ _May I?”_

Ossium ducks into his hand, pressing his head firmly to Zayn’s palm and allowing his dark eyes to slip closed. He lingers when Zayn scratches at his scales, and Zayn smiles widely. They linger, but after a moment, Ossium’s eyes open once more. He takes a graceful step back, eyes never leaving Zayn, and makes a quiet chittering sound.

Zayn turns towards the other two once Ossium moves behind them, and he expects Fraeyn to step forward next, now that Ossium will not stop her.

Xohen, though, is the one who steps towards him.

Zayn refuses to let his hesitation show, but still, he feels apprehensive when he raises his hand this time. Xohen stares at him, measuring his worth perhaps, before he too lowers his head into the palm of Zayn’s hands. His eyes do not slip closed, and he does not linger like Ossium had. Yet when he withdraws, it is still clear that he has allowed Zayn to touch him.

And then finally, it is Fraeyn’s turn.

She shuns his hand, already raised, and instead thrusts her head directly into Zayn’s chest. He releases a gust of air, surprised, but laughs immediately after. His hands go to either side of her large head, cradling it in the closest approximation he can get to an embrace.

“Sashuin, Fraeyn _,”_ he greets her warmly, ducking to press his face into the top of her head, just between her eyes so they are forehead to forehead. He allows his eyes to close, trying to create a world of their own as he speaks to his dragon. “ _Are you responsible for this?”_

She chirps back at him, a happy sound, and he breathes out a short laugh. He has never met another animal so capable of communicating as his dragon.

He is filled, quite suddenly, with a depthless, endless love. This dragon has chosen him, and he has chosen her, a part of himself.

Zayn needs no proof of their bond, but he knows such is not the case with the Nakin. With reluctance, he pulls back from her, so he can hold her gaze. She tilts her head curiously at him, and Zayn smiles as he asks, “ _Am I chosen?”_

The words are not traditional, for of course dragons cannot answer, but the traditional indication is a dragon’s willingness to allow a rider’s touch. Zayn does not think his touch will be enough to prove that Fraeyn is his dragon, and he, her rider, when the others have also allowed his touch. He needs to prove his bond with Fraeyn goes deeper.

He is not certain what he expects Fraeyn to do in answer to his question, but he must laugh when she answers, as well as if she could speak. With ease, she tips her head back and releases a roar, loud and frightening judging by the surprised exclamations of other Nakizi. She turns her attention back to him, and he swears her eyes laugh with him. He shakes his head at her antics but does not hesitate to press his forehead to hers once more.

“Gunsuim, Fraeyn,” he breathes, relief flooding his entire body.

When he steps back, all three dragons depart swiftly, blowing the fire into a chaotic mess with the force of their wings and startling the surrounding Nakizi. Zayn stands perfectly still and watches them until his weak eyes lose them to the night. They were here and gone so quickly, it is as though they never came.

Yet when he turns his eyes back to the ground, he sees the rapt faces of the Nakizi all focused on him and knows that their impact has created shockwaves. The Nakizi have pressed closer once more, drawn in by their interest now that the beasts are gone. Zayn does not let their nearness cow him. He stands tall and proud under the weight of their awe and accepts it.

Like before, he does not know why the dragons treat him thus, but he will not turn from it; he will not hide from his gift.

“ _Kiza bless me,”_ Liam’s mother breathes out, and Zayn turns toward her voice to see her bow to the earth and then raise her eyes skyward in the traditional sign of gratitude. Her eyes are wide when she looks to him. “Kater aez Draza, yn. Ta az kater aez draza.”

Others pick up the name Liam had once given Zayn, murmuring it amongst themselves, but Zayn turns his focus to Liam.

Liam, who looks back at him with his arms crossed and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, watches with obvious pride but not shock. It warms Zayn impossibly to see his strong husband so fond.

“ _Is it done?”_ Zayn asks, suddenly restless to be in Liam’s arms once more but uncertain. “ _Am I yours?”_

A reckless smile breaks across Liam’s face, and when he makes to move towards Zayn, Zayn moves as well, to meet Liam halfway. They crash together, and Zayn finds himself raised within the circle of Liam’s arms so that his husband holds him up. The strength of Liam’s arms takes his breath away. Liam gazes up at him, his smile softening into something fond and gentle, and Zayn’s fingers tangle gently in the intricacy of Liam’s braids. He is ensnared within his husband’s gaze; he cannot look away.

“ _You are mine, if I am yours,”_ Liam answers him, and though he does not shout, he does not whisper. He allows his voice to carry, so that the others who should hear them, do.

Zayn does not look away from his husband to confirm, but he is fairly certain it is Harry who says, “ _They are bound.”_

When Liam kisses him, the shouting of the Nakizi fades to meaningless noise, and Zayn lets himself experience the pure joy of belonging wholly to someone who belongs, equally, to him. 

* * *

 

Later that night, after the Nakizi have flooded every street near the xamunakin and the celebration has carried throughout the various Nakins, after the other Nalé have come forward and bowed in recognition before Liam and Zayn, after members from the Nakin aez Draza have laid various gifts at their feet, Liam pulls Zayn away from the crowds. It takes a moment for Zayn, warm from the effects of his husband’s attentions and joyous still from the ceremony, to realize that Liam guides him toward his mother’s home.

“Liam,” Zayn tugs gently at the hand Liam has a firm grip of to grab Liam’s attention. Liam turns, responsive as he has been all night. Zayn flushes but does not let Liam’s ready devotion distract him. “ _Where do we go?”_

Liam’s hands frame his face, and he presses a quick, sudden kiss to Zayn’s mouth. When he pulls back, he lingers close enough that their lips snag as he speaks. “ _I would have you, now. I would have you under me, around me. I would have you.”_

Warmth drips down Zayn’s spine, pooling in his lower abdomen and stirring his interest. His fingers tighten where they have wrapped around Liam’s biceps. He wants his husband, desperately and with an edge, but he bites his lip.

He remembers, vividly, a daydream he had allowed himself once, not that long ago, of Liam underneath him, of Liam gasping as Zayn slid himself onto Liam’s cock and took his pleasure. He imagines that now, but not in their tent and not in the home of Liam’s mother. Instead he pictures them out here, in the open.

Zayn has seen others, tonight and other nights while they had been travelling, seeking their pleasure like this, in the open, and he wants it.

He wants everyone to see as they claim each other.

He presses up, kissing Liam sudden and deep, and lets Liam’s willing response embolden him. When he pulls away, he places one hand to Liam’s chest, holding him there. “ _Wait,”_ he breathes and then he pulls away. He takes a few steps back, facing Liam still to ensure his husband listens. Liam looks confused, so Zayn repeats, “ _Wait.”_

Liam frowns but nods, and Zayn turns. He is quick when he enters the home of Liam’s mother, fingers finding what he needs easily. When he returns outside, Liam waits for him in the exact spot Zayn had left him, and Liam’s eyes widen when he sees the furs and oil that Zayn carries.

Zayn’s intent must be clear, and a flush overtakes Liam’s face. Zayn sighs out in relief to see Liam’s obvious interest in the idea. “ _Are you sure?”_ Liam asks when Zayn stands before him once more. The width of Liam’s large hand spans Zayn’s lower back, but Liam does not pull him closer or kiss him.

It is dark, the circles of fire in front of the xamunakin just far enough from where they stand that it is dim, but they are not so far that Zayn cannot hear the others. They are not so far that no one will see or hear them.

Zayn expects to feel trepidation, or shame. What he is suggesting is not done in Hal; what he wants is not something he was raised to want. Yet Zayn feels nothing but desire, nothing but want and need.

He drops his supplies and cradles Liam’s face. Zayn rises onto his toes to make them of a height and presses his mouth firmly to Liam’s. When he pulls away, he stays close enough that they can share their breaths. “ _Yes,”_ he whispers, soft but firm, “ _yes, Liam, please. Have me.”_  

* * *

 

Liam arranges them carefully, and with an equal amount of care, ensures Zayn is ready for him, but when he goes to lay Zayn back, Zayn stops him. With a gentle press to Liam’s chest, Zayn guides his husband to lay on his back instead. Liam, confused but willing, allows this arrangement, and his brown eyes darken when Zayn straddles him. His hands engulf Zayn’s hips, and he breathes harshly in anticipation, but he does not move Zayn. He allows Zayn to sink onto him, Liam’s cock sliding home within Zayn. The hand on Liam’s chest clenches at the stretch and pleasure races up and down Zayn’s spine. He gives himself a moment to relax and gazes steadily into Liam’s eyes as he does so.

“ _You are mine,”_ he finds himself saying, repeating words that Liam had told him earlier. “ _You are mine, and I am yours.”_

 _“I am yours,”_ Liam repeats, voice rough but unwavering. He is aroused, eager, but his eyes are clear. Whatever their beginning, whatever secrets may still remain between them, in this moment Zayn knows this with absolute certainty: they belong to each other.

He rides Liam, taking his pleasure, and once he spills, he does not stop. He continues to move over Liam, who sweats and strains beneath him but does not overpower Zayn. His breath grows more ragged as he grows closer to the edge, and when Zayn is certain that Liam’s pleasure is nearly upon him, he leans down.

“ _Dazun,”_ he whispers, lips snagging on the edge of Liam’s ear. “ _Liam, come for me.”_

And Liam does, a loud shout echoing from his throat as he arches underneath Zayn. He is fierce, when he drags Zayn down to kiss him, fierce and consuming and proud.

Underneath the night sky with the entirety of the Nakizi surrounding them, Zayn lays claim to Liam like this, and he allows Liam to lay claim to him too. 

* * *

 

He is Zayn, dethroned Prince of Hal, husband of the Nalé of the Nakin aez Draza, kater aez draza, and one of the Nakizi. He is Zayn, husband of Liam. He is Zayn, and he is not ashamed of who he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the third thing I have to tell you guys is this: I’m going to be taking a short break from this fic. (Don't freak out!)
> 
> I hate the lack of updating schedule I’ve subjected everyone to, and I am about to be ridiculously busy for the next four months or so, so to save everyone a lot of waiting and heartbreak I’m just going to step away for a bit.
> 
> This story is not done! I have so much more left to write, and I really do plan on coming back to it. But I also don’t want to leave you guys on huge cliff hangers for months. So, I’ve tried to give this chapter the best ending I could and wrap up all of the huge points, in the hope that this will feel like the first book in a series rather than an unfinished fic. When I do come back to this fic, I’ll probably reformat this part and then continue it as a series.
> 
> So basically: Yes, this fic is now technically complete. No, I’m not done with this AU. Yes, I am taking a break. No, I am not giving up on this story. 
> 
> I hope you guys can stick with me, and I really, really, really hope I can return to this story quickly, but in the meantime, I want to tell everyone how much I appreciate everyone who stuck out the awful updating schedule and has commented throughout. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I hope to write to you all again (in about four months or so)!
> 
> Nakizi:  
> Pinimk – outsider  
> Pukuin – city-scum  
> Ki ne – let me  
> Ta praeshae hic! Ta praeshae pinimk! – you protect him! You protect an outsider!  
> Gazekav ne – challenge me  
> E uci – I accept  
> Makize – killing mark

**Author's Note:**

> Nakizi – nomadic traders  
> Nakin – tribe of Nakizi  
> Nalé – leader of a Nakin  
> Hal – the city ruled by the Malik family  
> Banshia – the conquering city currently waging war on Kiza  
> Kiza – the continent  
> Nakin aez Draza – the Dragon Nakin  
> Jak – stop  
> Dazun – come   
> Vulkeyun – brother in arms, term of endearment  
> Anshiayn – beautiful   
> Sashuin – welcome/greetings  
> Nakizi uz sashuin un Hal – the Nakizi are welcome in the city of Hal  
> Gunsuim – many thanks


End file.
